


Beneath Cowdenbeath: A Tale of the Kingdom of Fife

by Lavender_Persimmon305



Category: Gloryhammer (Band)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2020-12-31 18:17:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 44,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21150104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lavender_Persimmon305/pseuds/Lavender_Persimmon305
Summary: Ralathor, the mysterious hermit that lives in the caverns beneath Cowdenbeath, prefers a private life. Except when Moira Hollywell is around. But he'll never admit that.





	1. In the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the 'Tales From the Kingdom of Fife' timeline. Zargothrax is around, but hasn't tried to destroy Dundee or freeze the Princess Iona.
> 
> Also, I hope it goes without saying, this work is about the characters within the Gloryhammer universe, not the musicians themselves. (Pretty sure Ben Turk can't draw glowing blue runes in thin air...?)
> 
> Dedicated to EbonyDraygon and FoxWinterArt for their support of this work. Y'all are superstars and I appreciate you so much!

Thunder boomed overhead as Lady Moira Hollywell searched frantically for the hidden door in the rock face, rain lashing against her back and dripping from her hair. Her pale hands kept pushing the raven strands back when the wind would smack them across her face, obscuring her hunt for the entrance she knew to be hidden by swags of lichen and ivy. Behind her, the Princess Iona of Dundee murmured reassuringly to her husband as she tried to hold his weight up, Angus McFife's injuries a concern to both of the women.  
  
_ "Ralathor!" _Moira screamed over the gale, beating her fists against the stone and tugging at curtains of leaves. "Ralathor, where are you, you misbegotten tree! Open up, we need help!"  
Curses unbefitting her station as a princess' lady-in-waiting hissed between her teeth as she glanced over her shoulder at the anxious royals huddled amongst the trees. Iona's pale blue cloak was a sorry attempt at warmth over the prince's shoulders.  
  
"By the teeth of the gods, you harpy, stop shrieking!" a voice bellowed from her left, and her shoulders slumped in relief to see the furious man poking his head out of a crevice a few feet away.  
  
"Iona, this way," she ordered, hurrying over to help walk Angus to the cave door.  
  
"No no no, what in the hells is this?" the man in tattered, dark blue robes demanded as the party drew near. "No, no visitors or guests, Hollywell, you know the rules!" He folded his arms, glaring at the woman in sodden lavender silk, her black hair tumbling down in wild strings that clung to her shoulders and cheeks.  
  
"Please! He needs healing!" Iona begged, shifting his attention to her, her blue eyes desperate. She grunted and shifted Angus' weight so she could wrench off the silver and opal circlet from her brow. "I'll pay you, whatever you want, sir! Just help him!" She shoved the jewelry at him, fingers reddened from cold.  
  
The man called Ralathor looked down at the tiara in distaste, his lips twisted sourly behind his beard. "I have no need for such things as a crown," he spat, turning away. "Begone!"  
  
Iona gaped at Moira, then sucked in a breath as the door started to close. "By Dagdha, we shall not!" she snarled, lifting a foot and forcefully kicking the wooden panel open fully. She pushed through, past the startled hermit, and down the rough-hewn corridor to an inner chamber. "He is my husband, and your prince!" she snapped, easing the nearly-unconscious man in green armor to an unmade bed in a corner. "You will help him, or so help_ me,_ I'll kill you where you stand for your lack of empathy, you blackguard!"  
  
"Your Highness..." Moira began, her tone a warning, though she couldn't help the faint note of mirth in her voice. Iona rarely let her temper show, but when she did, it was quite volatile. Nonetheless, it wasn't wise to rile Ralathor if you weren't on good terms with him. Although, come to think of it, she pondered, it could be dangerous even if you were.  
  
The princess tucked a blanket over Angus and straightened, her face calmer as she looked over at their impromptu host. "I apologize, sir. That was rather...brash of me."  
  
Ralathor surprised them both and shook his head slightly. "No, you were right, I was being apathetic to your plight. It's just not everyday I have someone pounding on my door." His eyes narrowed at Moira, who only rolled hers at his discomfort.  
  
The lady waved a hand airily as if to dispel his poor mood. "You were the first person I thought of that could offer any kind of worthwhile aid, you doddering magician," she snapped. "He was captured by goblins and held captive for several days. Obviously he is injured, and it would serve you well to treat him. A favor to the House of Fife might come in handy one day." She winked at Iona, who nervously clasped her hands together.  
  
The hermit looked down at Moira with a sneer. "You know I don't care about currying favor with the nobility."  
  
"Ah, so you can't heal him?" she sighed, walking over to one of his many shelves and plucking at a few jars.  
  
Ralathor hurried over and grabbed the bottles away only to grip them tightly to his chest as if they were newborn kittens. "I never said that, you withered crab apple," he hissed. "I said I need no favors. I want no one beholden to me, nor do I need payment." He directed this last statement to the princess, who had seated herself beside her love and was gently touching his wan face. Ralathor looked away from the moving scene, his throat bobbing as he swallowed uncomfortably. "Now then, if you want me to work, I suggest you give me some room, Hollywell," he barked, moving to put his burden on a scarred wooden table already scattered with books and parchment. He wasn't about to thank her for already selecting the first round of herbs he'd need for this potion. Her ego was already inflated enough, he was sure.  
  
Moira smirked and left him alone while she moved to the fireplace to stoke the embers. "You know, it wouldn't kill you to keep this going a bit more," she commented as she scraped out some of the ashes and added a couple more logs, the flames licking at the bark greedily.  
  
Ralathor grunted and dumped a handful of something into a mortar, pointedly ignoring her while she poured water in to a kettle and hung it over the hearth.  
  
"Your Highness, would you care for some tea?" she offered as she retrieved mugs from a nearby cupboard.  
  
The princess looked up from her seat on the bed, Angus' hand clasped between hers. His color was looking better now that he was out of the wet and he seemed to be sleeping peacefully. "Oh! Yes, thank you," she smiled weakly. Now that the adrenaline of the rescue and flight from the goblin stronghold was wearing off, she was feeling drained.  
  
Moira nodded once, collecting a sugar dish and pouring milk into a small pitcher shaped like a cow. "Ralathor, would you like a cup?"  
  
He scribbled a few notes then went back to grinding powders, his long fingers sprinkling ingredients in a little at a time. "Yes, thanks," he said distractedly, nose wrinkling with the noisome scent of dartneedle grass.  
  
"Get your own then," she responded, spooning leaves into a strainer and tucking it into a large blue teapot.  
  
"Choke and die," he shot back calmly, tipping the mortar's contents into a small cauldron set over a candle.  
  
"Cream and sugar?" she asked while Iona was following their verbal sparring with wide eyes.  
  
Normally her friend was the picture of sweetness and grace, every word honey and delight. To see her firing off barbs, though, admittedly, without any heat behind them, was something new. Moira was clever and quick-witted, to be sure, but this was new territory to see.  
  
"Thanks, yes," he answered, stirring the cauldron as he drizzled gleaming green oil into the concoction. He frowned, running a finger down a list in one of his books, and started to ask a question--  
  
"Silvershot," Moira told him without looking, her focus on the kettle as she wrapped a tea towel around the hot handle and poured it into the pot to steep. "Not silverbane. 'One is for clots-'," she chanted in a singsong voice.  
  
"'The other's insane'," Ralathor finished for her, nodding and adding the appropriate ingredient. "Yes, that's right, thank you."  
  
She smiled and added milk to the three mugs then poured the tea and added sugar. She swirled a spoon through each of them then turned to deliver Iona's drink to her. She laid a comforting hand on the other woman's shoulder, pushing calming energy through her touch. "He'll be alright," she told her gently. "For all his grumbling, Ralathor knows what he's doing." She patted her back. "Now, drink your tea and get warm. If this clodpole didn't keep it so chilly in here..." Her voice rose slightly at the end with feigned irritation as she wheeled around to give the sorcerer his cup and retrieve her own.  
  
"You never do keep that gaping maw of yours shut, do you?" he sighed, accepting the mug with one hand, fingers caged over the rim as he took a swallow. He moved back as the Lady came over to check his notes, her hands wrapped warmly around her own drink.  
  
She hummed slightly, reading and nodding in approval. "Oh, I hadn't thought of that," she murmured, tapping at an ingredient, the heavy lapis ring on her finger glittering in the torchlight. "That's a good idea."  
  
Ralathor snorted and drank his tea, keeping an eye on the couple in his bed alcove. The princess looked as if she could fall asleep sitting up, and her husband was looking better from the pink salt, lavender, and oud incense sending calming scents through the chamber. "Of course it is," he mumbled into the cup. He was grateful for the cover of his hair and hood to obscure the pleased reddening of his ears from Moira's rare praise.  
  
"I'm going to retrieve the camp cot," Moira told him quietly, setting her mug on another table, away from the potions. It wouldn't do to drink the wrong brew and get turned into a goldfish. Again. "Iona could use the rest, and it'll be easier to have room to work with Angus."  
  
"The potion is almost done," Ralathor replied, watching as she left the room, then went back to his mixing. He drew a glowing blue rune in the air above the cauldron, catching the princess' eye with the movement.  
  
Iona rose to her feet and walked to him, her mud-stained slippers making a soft squishing sound with each step over the haphazard collection of carpets. "I thank you for helping us, Lord Ralathor," she said in a quiet, grateful voice. "I don't know what we would have done had Moira not led us here. She trusts you greatly, I can tell."  
  
He cleared his throat, not looking at her. "It's just 'Ralathor', Your Highness. I am no highborn lord, just a simple hermit."  
  
She laughed, the sound silvery light and genuine. "There is nothing simple about you, sir," she insisted. "This home of yours is a wonder." She looked around her at the starlight twinkle of crystals reflecting the firelight, some clustered in bowls or tucked into the shadows of bookshelves, others growing from the rock walls naturally. Gizmos and gears clicked and whirred softly in repeating patterns, fairy-like chimes sounding now and again from inventions scattered throughout the caverns. "And for Lady Moira to trust you not with only our safety and health but her own, well...that speaks volumes for you, Ralathor."  
  
He ducked his head further, sure the burn in his cheeks would ignite the fumes from his cauldron if he got closer. "Of course Hollywell thinks more of herself than her prince and princess," he rumbled, voice oddly strangled. He coughed and picked up his tea to sip. Damned incense smoke, it always wrecked his allergies.  
  
Iona smirked, folding her arms and gazing fondly at the hooded sorcerer. "You speak so harshly of her, and she you, but I think more lurks beneath than what you choose to show her," she whispered conspirationally to him, winking when his head shot up, face pale with her assessment.  
  
  
He quickly recovered and glared fiercely at the petite woman. "Go drink your tea, Highness. That simpering hag you call a handmaid is retrieving a cot for you to have a lie-down on, and I wouldn't want you to waste your drink." He waved a hand. "Go sit with your man, I'll have his medicine ready soon. If you'd stop distracting me," he scowled, struggling to maintain his frown when she laughed again and smiled before doing as he asked and walking away.


	2. Potions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watch how you're stirring the cauldron...

Moira soon returned, carrying in a large basket of folded bedding first, then a collapsible wooden cot Ralathor used if he ever had to sleep outside.

He gave a short hiss between his teeth as she struggled with the furniture and he moved over to her quickly to assist. "Here, set that down," he fussed, taking it from her to unfold it next to a wall not too far from the prince's bed. "I'd forgotten how heavy this thing is."

"Almost as cumbersome as your ego." Moira stifled a yawn as she selected sheets and a sturdy quilt made of scraps of old blue and black fabric. "Pardon me," she murmured, blinking a little before setting to work putting the bedding on the mattress. She felt more than a little bedraggled and knew her hair was going to be a riot of curls from the damp if she didn't find a brush soon. She didn't notice Ralathor starting to edge closer to help her, only to rush away when Iona got up also.

"Moira, you've been awake as long as I have, if not more," she chided, pulling a pillow out of the basket while her maid tucked a top sheet neatly and swept the quilt over the bed, the breeze fluttering both their gowns. Iona set the pillow down at the head and gently took Moira's hands in hers, the redheaded princess looking ruefully at her. "Besides, you fought off those wretched goblins while I dragged Angus out, I know you've drained yourself." When she'd first discovered her lady-in-waiting was a sorceress she'd been a little nervous, having had a distant cousin fall under an evil fairy's sleep spell years before. But Moira had never harmed her or her family, and was grateful to have a friend who knew her secret.

"You _fought_ them?" Ralathor demanded, knuckles whitening around the stirring rod in his hand since he'd gone back to his table. Now he advanced on the pair so quickly they each took a retreating step.

"I'm not incapable of defending myself, you know!" Moira bristled, dropping Iona's hands and facing him head-on. The brief flash of worry in his gray eyes unnerved her, though with the shadows over his face from his hood she couldn't be sure of what she saw. "Honestly, your faith in me fair warms my heart," she said hotly. "And I'm not the one you should be focusing on, if I may remind you." She turned away from him deliberately. "Your Highness, there's a washroom through there, just beyond the library chamber, if you'd like to wash up. An old gown of mine hangs in the cabinet, too, should you like to change clothes, and there are toweling cloths and a soft bath mat to stand on as well." She gestured back to the corridor she'd just come out of. "Ralathor and I will see to Angus."

Iona glanced from her to the still-seething man behind her and chose not to argue, though she would rather have stayed by her prince's side. "Of course. Thank you." She reached out to squeeze her friend's hands once more then departed with a whisper of wet petticoats.

Moira silently walked to the potions table, her nose in the air imperiously, though she could feel the cold crackle of the hermit's energy directed at her, his eyes tracking her movements. "We should get started," she reminded him, squinting down at the potion and tapping the side of the cauldron with a crystal point. She smiled when it turned a soothing blue, shimmering faintly.

"Were you harmed?"

The quiet question had her looking at him in surprise, sure her ears were playing tricks on her, the words were so hushed. A smirk pulled at her lips as she slipped thick gloves on to remove the small cauldron from its stand. "Of course not, you ninny," she replied lightly, not about to let him know that one of the creatures had landed a solid blow to her back and her ankle was still tender from a flight down stairs. Never mind that holding an invisibility spell over the three of them as they fled through the barbican had left her head aching and her eyes stinging with strain. "Be careful, you grouchy blueberry, or I'll actually believe my welfare concerns you."

She gasped when he appeared at her side, peering intently at her face. His eyes searched hers, narrowing when he found his answer. "Lying witch," he spat, turning away to start another tisane to mix into her tea. "See to the princeling, I'm busy," he grunted, leaving her shaken at his intrusion into her space.

He ignored the muttered curses directed at his person and lineage as she cooled the medicine with a widdershins swirl of her spoon through the liquid, then gathered a bowl and bandages and moved to sit beside the fallen McFife. A small table scooted closer at her gesture so she could set her tools on it before she rested a hand on Angus' armored chest.

She closed her eyes, Ralathor glancing up from his work to watch as a soft lilac glow sat like a corona around her head and hands, spikes of silver shimmering through the aurora occasionally as she threaded her awareness through the prince. She searched out his injuries, mapping them in her mind, and relieved that he wasn't as harmed as they had initially feared.

When she was done, she sagged briefly against the back of her chair and let herself drink in the scent of the cave to bolster her strength. "Stop watching me," she grated, pointing a finger at her fellow wise person without looking to him.

"Just making sure you're not overtaxing yourself and I'll have to haul your corpse out of my home," he retorted, his nostrils flaring at having been caught in his observations.

"I'll make sure to die neatly so as not to mess up your rugs," she promised, disguising a groan as a simple exhale as she leaned forward to start removing the prince's armor and boots. Her back's injury was starting to make itself known in a dull, pounding pain that sent a shard of heat through her ribs whenever she moved. 

The buckles on Angus' chestpiece weren't much of a trouble, but the leather ties on his gauntlets were tricky. Finally she had him down to his tunic and leggings and could start dressing his wounds.

Except for a split lip and a black eye, his head was in good shape. A purpling bruise on one side of his ribs showed where several punches had landed, and the muscles jumped under her hand as she applied the salve and covered it with a soft bandage. She gritted her teeth as she wove strings of magic around his torso to lift him slightly while she wrapped the dressings around him, all the while ignoring the fact that she was dealing with her monarch in a slight state of undress. 

"You're breathing rather harshly there, Hollywell," Ralathor spoke up, keeping his attention divided between her and the potion before him. He practically bounced on his heels with impatience, willing it to brew faster.

Moira set Angus back down, tugging his shirt modestly to his waist once more, and started to see to his raw knuckles. She knew he would fight back against his captors, and she was proud of him. Steel-hearted prince, indeed. "He's not as delicate a butterfly as you," she responded, consciously slowing her breathing down to avoid any further comments. It felt like the room was turning chilly again, she noticed, as a clammy prickling crawled across the nape of her neck. "Why do you insist on keeping it so bloody cold in here?" she muttered, wrapping gauze around Angus' hand and setting it down as Iona came back in, looking much warmer in the fresh garment.

Moira stood again, holding on to the back of the chair for a second's support, and smiled at the princess. "You're welcome to take my seat," she offered, moving away. "I just need to get another roll of cloth." She turned to ask Ralathor where he kept his spare wrappings when the room split itself into threes with a haze of twinkling lights dancing at the edges of her vision. "Ral?" she breathed, brows wrinkling in worry, her hand lifting towards him imploringly before her eyes rolled back and she dropped like a stone.

How he reached her before she hit the floor he couldn't say, but Ralathor was grateful he was able to catch her in time to prevent a blow to her head. He braced a knee on the floor to shift her more fully into his arms before he stood again, the limp weight of her body cradled against his chest. His hood had fallen back from his rush, and he looked up at Iona clearly, the fear in his eyes sending a shiver down her back.

"Go take care of her, I'll see to Angus," she ordered, going over to nudge him back towards the doorway behind her. There were more doors to more rooms, she had noticed, and she surmised that he had a proper bedchamber tucked back there somewhere. "She'll be fine, Ralathor, you won't fail her," she said firmly, patting his back and offering a warm smile. "Go let her rest."

He nodded dumbly, his eyes not leaving the pale face resting against his shoulder, the glamour Moira had put on herself fading to reveal the faint purple smudges under her eyes and bruise on her cheek from battle. He bit back a curse at her perfidy, wondering what had possessed her to cover such things up. He could have healed her, she knew that. He shook his head, his booted feet snapping against the stone floor as he walked, cloak brushing the walls in his wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for such a short chapter! I hope you're enjoying it, though!


	3. Healing the Healer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ralathor works on healing Moira

The gentle whirs and chimes in the workroom couldn't be heard back in the cavernous bedchamber, the calm stillness broken only by the crackling of the hearth fire as Ralathor gently set Moira on the bed. The sheets and blankets were still pushed back from when he'd awakened earlier, the hermit having promised himself he'd tidy up later, though the later never came because of his unexpected guests.

  


"Damned egotistical fool," he muttered, glaring down at her and moving to take off her shoes, the deep purple silk stained beyond repair with mud. He growled when he noticed her swollen ankle beneath the shredded stockings, her pale toes peeking out at the tattered bottoms. "Idiotic addlepated gooseberry." He retrieved a squat brown bottle from a cupboard, bandages, and a small towel then sat down at her feet, his shoulders slumping as he watched her sleep. "Exquisite, enchanting woman," he murmured. "Moira, why do we do this to each other?" he wondered, cutting away the stocking to expose her ankle so he could apply salve. "We started out alright, now here we are, cursing each other six ways 'til Sunday, always pushing at each other. It's like we're trying to break one another, or break through to something else." He sighed, shaking his head as he wound the soft white cloth over and around her foot. "Maybe I should banish you, make you forget me," he mused. "Maybe then you'll find happiness and not have to trouble yourself with me any longer."

  


He wiped his hand on the towel and set the ointment on his nightstand, taking in another breath before he straightened his shoulders. "Alright, sweetness, let's see what else you've done to yourself." He stood and unclasped his cloak to hang on a hook, leaving his cowl on his shoulders, then rolled up his sleeves as he stood beside her again.

  


Ralathor's eyes darkened to a midnight navy blue, a halo of electric turquoise surrounding the irises as he sketched runes in the air, the symbols fading in and out of existence while he sought out her injuries. His own back spasmed when his mind brushed against the abrasion on hers, the sharp crackling of wounded ribs nearly stealing his breath. How had she traveled like this? he wondered, angered by her stubbornness and his heedless acceptance that she was unhurt.

  


He was grateful she wasn't harmed further, and his magic swept quietly over the cut on her face, cooling the headache that had been plaguing her also. Her features relaxed under his care, her breathing finally evening into deep breaths that he subconsciously mimicked as she moved deeper through the layers of sleep.

  


Her physical hurts seen to, he focused on the depleted stores of her power. The sugary-tart taste of her magic teased him, even though it was as thin as frost on a leaf when he inspected it. His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking beneath the stubble while he drew energy from the crystals peering from the walls around them and siphoned it into her slowly, as if he were feeding broth to a sickly child. Too much and it would do more harm than good.

  


When he could feel a heftier push of her lilac-tinged magic against the indigo-lapis of his he pulled away, slumping back against a wall. His eyes returned to their normal gray and he allowed himself a satisfied smile at a job well done.

  


She still needed rest, and would need nourishment when she decided to awaken, but she slept comfortably now, he knew. Worry still prodded at the edges of his thoughts, though Iona's earlier words of assurance that Moira trusted him with her safety and well-being helped to assuage the fear.

  


Ralathor drew the blankets over her, wanting to dress her in something softer, but felt as if he'd taken enough liberties with just her stockings. With one last glance, and a smattering of wards placed around the bed, he left the room to check on his other patient.

  


The Crown Prince of Fife looked worlds better when the hermit re-entered his workroom, the young man's color healthier, and he'd even rolled onto his side in his sleep. Ralathor looked over to Iona's bed to find the princess watching him drowsily from beneath her blankets. She pushed herself up to sit, awareness clearing her eyes as she noticed the change in his attire and the calm in his expression. 

  


"She fares well, then?" Iona asked, swinging her legs out of bed and demurely adjusting her gown to keep them covered before she stood. She walked over to stand across the work table from him while Ralathor returned to his earlier task of Moira's potion.

  


"She sleeps," he answered, deciding to not worry her with the details of her friend's injuries. Though the Princess of Dundee obviously had as steely a heart as her husband, Ralathor thought it better to not burden her with further concerns. "She overtaxed herself, but she now rests comfortably. She'll wake when she's ready, I assure you, Your Highness." He nodded his head to her deferentially.

  


Iona folded her arms, the soft silk of her sleeves sliding against each other softly. "And how are you?" she inquired delicately, watching him add a dollop of honey to the mixture.

  


He started to dissuade her questioning with a sharp retort, but he looked into her determined gaze and realized this woman saw far more than he was comfortable revealing. He relented. "I am...relieved. I am glad she's under my care as I don't know of anyone else who I--" He faltered, looking back down to his potion, a tinge of red touching his high cheekbones. "I wouldn't trust her with anyone else," he murmured. He cleared his throat, focusing harder as he fetched a blue bottle from a drawer and poured the liquid into it. "Why are you both dressed so finely for a rescue mission?" he asked, nodding towards her ice blue gown where it lay folded in a nearby chair.

  


Pearls and tiny cabochons of moonstone twinkled from elaborate embroidery on her bodice, now stained with spatters of mud and dried rainwater. He could tell her hair had been dressed in some complicated braid, the ends of which now trailed down her arms from her replaced circlet. Moira was similarly dressed, he recalled, though in her signature color of amethyst, the shades of it fading from light to dark like a sunrise on the delicate cloth.

  


"We were at a dinner in Mossmoran when word reached us that Angus had been taken while hunting with his men, Ser Proletius, and the Hootsman, King of Unst," Iona explained. "The men had been ambushed at least two days prior when we were told by a messenger who had ridden hard from the citadel at Dundee." She looked over at her sleeping husband, a fond, relieved smile smoothing her face. "Moira and I excused ourselves from the meal as soon as we could, feigning a lack of appetite from worry, though that wasn't too far from the truth. We hurried back to our rooms to gather cloaks and leave a missive explaining we were going to search for Angus ourselves."

  


Ralathor pulled in a slow draw of breath and counted to five as he swallowed down his temper. This was the princess of the kingdom he resided in, he reminded himself. It wouldn't do to shout at her. "I suppose it's a bit of a moot point to tell you that was a very foolhardy and dangerous idea, and you three are very lucky to still be alive, correct?" He arched a disapproving eyebrow and tightened his jaw. "Was this Hollywell's idea?" he asked, the words crushed between his teeth.

  


Iona glared at him. So, he was back to being prickly, was he? "No, actually, Master Ralathor, the Lady Moira tried her very best to talk me out of the venture. But my husband's life was as stake, and while I, literally, trust Proletius and Hoots with both his and my lives, I was not about to sit around in a sewing parlor working on my embroidery. When you love someone, you'll take up any challenge, no matter the danger to yourself." Her words dropped into the space between them like stones into a dark lake, and she stared him down, her hands planted firmly on the scarred wood table.

  


The hermit blinked first and looked away again. "You are to be commended, then, on your bravery, madame," he murmured. "Both of you."

  


She folded her arms again, nodding once. "I should say so."

  


He glanced up at her, failing to suppress a smile when she grinned at him sunnily and giggled, unable to hold a temper for very long sometimes. "You know, with a smile that handsome, I can see why Moira fancies you," she remarked.

  


Ralathor rolled his eyes. "Are you sure you didn't suffer a blow to the head, Highness?" he responded sourly. "The Lady Moira Hollywell, the youngest child and only daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Hollywell, would not deign to cast her eyes on one such as me in a romantic light. Powerful though I may be, I am no highborn lord, as I have said before," he growled, going to retrieve Moira's forgotten teacup and re-warming it with a grip of his hand.

  


"Master Ralathor, I meant no offense--" Iona began, reaching towards him placantingly, but he moved rapidly towards the far doorway.

  


"I suggest you get some rest, Highness. I'll make sure there is breakfast waiting for you and your love when you awaken. Good evening to you." He nodded once, sharply, and swept out of the room, leaving the princess to stare after him with sadness swimming in her eyes.

  



	4. In the Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh my Hoots, they were roommates! And there was only ONE BED!

Moira was, unsurprisingly, still asleep when Ralathor returned to his room. He set her teacup and medicine down on the night table, then went to slip off his boots and change into night clothes.

  


Hair braided back and face washed, he left a blanket for himself on a low couch before returning to the bedside.

  


"Your princess is definitely a good match to your temper," he informed Moira. "I can only imagine the hijinks and headaches you both cause around the castle." He measured out a dose of the potion and swirled it into the tea. Seating himself near the pile of pillows against the headboard, he slid an arm behind her neck to lift her, the damp mass of her hair seeping into his sleeve.

  


Moira stirred, a mumble escaping as she cracked her eyes open with a wince. "Ralathor?" she slurred, his face swimming into focus above her while he reached back to retrieve her tea. "Tired," she admitted, still drunk with exhaustion.

  


He watched her blink slowly, her green eyes still blurry. "I know, sweet--hag," he amended hastily, cursing himself inwardly for the near-slip. "But you need to drink think, please." He guided the mug to her lips, pleased when she sipped tentatively. "Your adventure took quite a toll on you, but this will help."

  


She paused for a moment, licking her lips. "Iona? Angus?" she asked, trying to lift a hand to take the cup from him, but unable to summon the strength. She settled for covering his fingers with her own to guide him, the warmth from her ring seeping in to his skin.

  


He snorted a quiet laugh at her compassion all the while doing his best not to lose himself to the satin of her touch. "They're fine, you blackberry fool. They're both asleep. Which you need to be also," he ordered, nodding in satisfaction when she swallowed the last draught of tea.

  


She closed her eyes and nodded her agreement as she yawned against her hand, and he set the teacup back on the table. He started to back away and lever himself up, but her hand brushed his shirt then curled into the worn fabric as she shifted closer. She settled more comfortably, slipping down to rest on the pillows as her palm flattened on his chest. A soft smile curved her mouth while she drifted off again, Ralathor's arm still trapped beneath her.

  


"Hollywell...Hollywell, I need to go," he protested, voice strangled with his growing panic. He tried to sit up, but she made a small noise of distress, her fingers tightening once more into his tunic.

  


He lifted his head, staring at nothing, and trying to calm his racing thoughts. This was improper, and ridiculous. This was his home, his bed. He could do as he pleased. If he wanted to stay beside her, he could. If he wanted to sleep on his couch, he could do that, instead. They were only sleeping beside one another, what was the harm? Besides, she would probably awaken soon and shove him bodily to the floor when she discovered him in this predicament.

  


Ralathor took a breath and looked down at her and how content she looked, as if there really nowhere else she'd rather be at that moment. She was beyond tired, he reminded himself. He could have deposited her in a loch and she'd be happily unconscious still. 

  


A yawn clambered in his throat and he rolled his eyes, his own sleepiness catching up to him rapidly. He'd only sleep for a few hours, he promised himself as he slipped under the blankets. He'd sleep here, then move to the couch before anyone was the wiser, then he'd get up and make breakfast and kick the whole lot of these interlopers out and he could go back to his blissful solitude.

  


Meanwhile, Moira just burrowed closer, her hands folded between them. She didn't stir when Ralathor draped his other arm around her and released the breath he had been holding as he let himself relax.

  


Just a few hours, he reminded himself. Then they would leave.

  


A few hours became the whole night, the couple sleeping deeply until Moira awoke with a satisfied stretch of limbs and a soft groan. She stiffened, though, at the displeased grunt beside her, a thin but strong arm tightening its hold around her waist. Her eyes popped open to stare at black, mussed hair just below her nose, Ralathor sleeping with his face nuzzled into her shoulder, her body cuddled against his.

  


She bit her lip, mind whirling with questions as to how they ended up like this. They were both clothed, she was relieved to see. Propriety be damned, if something intimate had occurred between them, she'd very much like to remember what had happened.

  


She remembered patching up Angus the night before, Iona returning from the washroom as she stood, then...then a sickly swirl of lights that faded into darkness. She knew she had pushed herself too hard during the rescue, but she'd ignored her injuries and weakness, focused solely on retrieving the young prince and making sure they all got out alive.

  


Beneath the heavy weight of the arm across her back, she realized her ribs no longer ached, and an experimental wiggle of her foot told her that her ankle was back to rights. The remnants of the flavors of herbs and tea on her tongue reminded her of the potion Ralathor had started, so he must have plied her with the medicine during the night. She frowned, hating that he'd seen her so weak, so pitiful, so...far beneath his skill level as a sorcerer. _He_ wouldn't have nearly depleted his energy stores like a dabbling trickster playing with spells. _He_ wouldn't have allowed a goblin to get a hit on his person. And he wouldn't have gotten stuck in a storm, begging for help while his monarchs shivered in the woods.

  


And now here he was, passed out from having to care for her while she lay in his own bed. She knew he didn't sleep that much. That was one reason he'd put in the bed in his workroom, so he could catch a quick nap while working when the need arose. And having guests had probably put a lot of strain on his nerves, and resources, further exhausting him. 

  


She looked down at him ruefully, studying the thick fringe of his lashes and the relaxed smoothness of his brow. She didn't think she'd ever seen him so at ease, though his face was occasionally hard to read since he was notorious for keeping his hood up, even while indoors. At least, as far as she knew. She lifted a hand, thinking to card her fingers through his hair, the strands beginning to curl out of the braid he had woven, but she stopped herself. He might awaken, and that wouldn't be fair of her to be the cause. He needed, and deserved, his rest. He'd done more than enough for her in the last day, the least she could do was let him sleep.

  


And possibly make breakfast, she added silently, when she felt her stomach gurgle softly.

  


Moira squinted and picked up his sleeve between her fingers, scooting backward out of his hold as quietly and carefully as possible, the fabric of her gown shushing alarmingly loud, to her ears, as she slid across the sheets. When she was far enough away, she gently replaced the limb to a resting spot and got out of the bed with bated breath.

  


Ralathor slept on, and she breathed a silent sigh of relief, only to jump when she passed through one of his invisible wards set around the bed.

  


The sorcerer shot up, eyes wild and hands gleaming with aggressive magicks as he looked rapidly around the room. His gaze landed on the woman trying futilely to make herself smaller, her face a twist of embarrassment as she watched him.

  


"Morning," she whimpered, one hand lifting in a sheepish wave.

  


"Are you _sure?"_ he growled, waving a hand and powering down the defensive spells before scrubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms.

  


Moira glared, no longer contrite for having woken him. "No, I'm not sure, I just woke up, you bearded cave waffle," she snapped, walking around to the doorway. She bent and snatched up the shoes he'd deposited on the floor then made to walk out, skirts swirling around her feet.

  


"Yes, so did I," he retorted just as hotly, starting to push his way out of bed, furious with himself for oversleeping. Even more furious for being so grouchy with her and sparking another argument. A deeper part of him was relieved to see her so fiery, her energy bright, and he was grateful he had been able to heal her. But this was not how he wanted to start the day, especially after falling asleep with her in his arms.

  


He moved to go after her only to stop short as she whirled back around, cheeks flushed from her ire.

  


"I'm sorry to have inconvenienced you, _Master Ralathor,"_ she spat, blinking rapidly. "I'll see to something to break our fast, and if His Highness is well enough to travel, we'll be on our way afterwards. I apologize for our invasion of your home, but am very grateful for your help." She spun back around, nearly smacking him with the swing of her hair as she stormed out, bare feet slapping the stone floor.

  


Curses of varying lengths and violence hissed through the air as he followed her out, skidding to a halt once more, though outside of his workroom when he heard her voice rise in dulcet notes of happiness. A male voice responded to hers, as well as the clear tones of the princess, laughter among the three chiming back into the shadows of the corridor and striking the man hidden in the gloom. He retreated from the gaiety, walking back quietly to his room, telling himself that he'd join them in a few minutes after he got ready for the day.

  


He paused by his bed, staring down at her teacup from the previous night and the wrinkled ribbon of the bandage he'd put on her foot, now forgotten in her rush from his chamber. He sighed, noting the depression from two sleepers in his pillows, and he could still feel the slight weight of her against him as she silently entreated him to stay with her.

  


Ralathor shook his head firmly, casting a bolt of power at the bed that sent the linens into their proper place and the teacup to his kitchen sink. The bandage he threw in a rubbish bin as he retreated to the washroom, slamming the door behind him with a satisfying crack.

  


Moira spooned out oatmeal into bowls, then sprinkled dried berries and chopped nuts over the cinnamon-laced porridge. She handed a bowl off to Angus and Iona each, then picked up her own before the three of them set off for the dining room. She left the cooking cauldron hanging beside the fire to keep it warm until Ralathor decided to join them for breakfast.

  


The dining room wasn't really as such, though it did boast a small table for eating. However, that only had one chair, a silent witness to the fact that its owner lived alone. The room was primarily a reading nook, so thankfully there were a few other comfortable chairs scattered around that they could settle into.

  


"So Iona was telling me she's blaming her shoes on this whole mess?" Angus grinned, folding the nuts into his oatmeal and glancing over at his wife. His deep blue eyes sparkled with mirth beneath his light brown bangs, and the princess sighed gustily at his teasing.

  


Moira frowned in confusion, then burst into laughter when she realized what he was talking about. "Oh, Iona, I hadn't even thought about the curse!" she giggled, taking a bite of her breakfast and rocking forward slightly in amusement.

  


"Curse?" Angus echoed, his eyebrows arching upwards. "Should I be concerned that I have a cursed spouse? And what's so special about your shoes that they can cause such dire happenings?" He looked down at her feet, the pale blue satin slippers peeking out innocently from beneath her hem.

  


Iona rolled her eyes and stuffed a bite of oatmeal in her mouth, the dried cherries and blueberries now plump from the porridge. She chewed and swallowed, collecting her thoughts. "It's not really a curse," she assured him, shaking her head. "It just feels like one. It seems like every time I purchase a new pair of shoes, be they boots, slippers, whatever, that something odd or awful happens."

  


"It's a coincidence!" Moira insisted, extending a palm for emphasis.

  


"Says the sorceress!" Iona responded, Angus laughing at her indignation and nearly blubbering his breakfast out of its spoon. "How soon you forget the time our carriage roof collapsed under snow after I'd bought those boots in Ireland!" She pointed in a rather unladylike fashion at her maid.

  


"It was an old carriage! Even Lady Ingraham warned us when we got in that it could be a bit drafty!"

  


"A snowdrift plopping onto our heads on the way out to Tara Hill is a wee bit more than 'drafty', dear," Iona said crossly.

  


"Coincidence." Moira shook her head.

  


"Alright then, what about the time I had purchased those lovely red shoes for that ball we attended in Dunvegan at the MacLeod's birthday party? I took one step onto the dance floor and slid into the piper announcing the first dance!"

  


Angus nearly choked at the image, his face an interesting shade of scarlet as he tried not to laugh at his beloved.

  


Moira sighed. "There had to have been a spill of wine on the floor," she insisted. "You just happened to step in it."

  


"Cursed!" Iona exclaimed, taking another bite of her meal with finality.

  


"Coincidence."

  


"Sweetling, I'm fairly certain your new shoes are not to blame for my capture," Angus placated, tilting his head and smiling crookedly, knowing she couldn't resist.

  


"Of course, take her side," Iona pouted, but still blushed prettily when he winked at her. "Whatever it was, I'm just so very glad to have you back and safe."

  


He blew a kiss to her. "As am I. Thank you both." He straightened in his seat, looking toward the door. "And I'd like to thank our host as well. It's extremely gracious to have taken us in and seen to our health."

  


The women shared a look, Moira shrugging silently and Iona's shoulders slumping in response.

  


Moira looked apologetically at her prince. "I'm afraid our host is--"

  


"Very sorry to have kept you waiting, Your Highness." Ralathor strode into the room, dressed in a floor-length midnight-blue robe, the hood pulled up, naturally. However, the gleam of pure silver embroidery set with labradorite, black tourmaline, and blue moonstones on its edges distracted the viewer from the fact that his face was mainly in shadow. He kept his hands tucked into his sleeves and bowed to Angus, then Iona, while the prince got to his feet.

  


"No, it's no trouble, Master Ralathor," McFife assured him, clasping Iona's hand as she moved to stand beside him. "We are the ones taking up your time. Thank you, again, for your hospitality."

  


The subtle gleam of a smile in the depths of the hood should have been reassuring, but the young prince couldn't help but feel just a twinge of unease. "Of course, Your Highness."

  


"We'll finish our breakfast and then be on our way," Moira spoke up, standing also. If he felt the need to be so formal, she wasn't going to say anything. She knew just making the effort to greet them was a large step for the hermit. Though, where he had been hiding so sumptuous a robe she couldn't say. 

  


Instead of making a sharp remark, as would have been his normal response, Ralathor merely gazed at her from his dusky hood and nodded once. "Safe travels, then," he answered, bowing to them once more before seeing himself out to retrieve his breakfast.

  


Again the princess and the sorceress shared a glance, this one confused and concerned, but Angus merely smiled brightly and turned to finish his meal.

  


"What an intriguing man!" he declared, seating himself and crossing his legs, ankle to knee, his foot bouncing with his energy. 

  


"Indeed," Moira murmured, looking toward the doorway Ralathor had left through. She supposed that was that, then. He'd saved their lives and now it was time to leave. She looked down at her bowl then straightened her shoulders, already turning her thoughts to their journey home.

  



	5. The Cloak of Lending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey home begins, and how the Blueberry Owl met his Gooseberry Witch

When their breakfast dishes had been washed and put away, and Angus and Iona were set to depart, Moira went further back into the caves to the library. As she had hoped, Ralathor was in there, going over old scrolls and reorganizing them. He had changed out of the ornate robe and back into his usual attire, cloak and hooded cowl in place as well.

  


"Did you need something, Hollywell?" he inquired, not looking up as she came into the room and stood before his desk. His quill continued scratching a notation on the parchment on its own, the sorcerer nodding as he sipped his tea and read the amendment.

  


She laced her fingers together, one thumb fiddling with the inner band of her ring as she watched him and gathered her thoughts. She was still coming to terms with her tumultuous thoughts from having woken up in his bed, in his arms. She'd cared for him for ages now, it seemed, but she was wearying of the arguing, the tension between them. Their petty little insulting names didn't carry any venom, or hers didn't anyway, but she couldn't call him the things she wanted to, the names she carried secretly in her heart. He'd only laugh and turn away, she knew. _I need to tell you how I felt this morning. I need to tell you I miss you when we part. I need to tell you that I've found solace with you._

  


But none of these admissions left her mouth. Instead, she smiled and stepped further in to the room. "We're leaving for Dundee," she informed him, stopping her hands' fidgeting. "I just wanted to say goodbye and thank you." She lifted a shoulder. "I know I probably wouldn't have survived without your help," she admitted, her cheeks warming.

  


"Leaving now?" he parroted, looking up finally. She'd stayed in the caves longer, but this time it felt...wrong that she was going away. He blinked, his brain trying to scramble for logical conversation, and he was glad he'd thought to put on his shaded glasses to offer himself more privacy.

  


Moira nodded. "It will take us, probably, until nightfall to reach the citadel," she explained. "So, we thought we ought to start the journey now, in the morning."

  


Ralathor frowned and stood, setting his pen back into its inkwell. He knew from past experience that letting it continue to write without observing it was a recipe for trouble. "Are you sure that's wise?" he queried, walking around the desk to stand before her. "Just the three of you travelling such a long way?"

  


She shrugged once more, cupping her elbows inside her sleeves. "With any luck, we'll run into one of the search parties, or better yet, Ser Proletius and the Hootsman."

  


He folded his arms, subconsciously mimicking her stance as he shifted his weight to stand hipshot. "I don't think this is a good idea, Hollywell," he commented, leveling his hidden gaze at her. He quickly held up a hand when he saw her back stiffen with indignation. "I'm simply saying that in light of the prince's capture, and the fact that we have armed goblins roaming the countryside, who are undoubtedly ill-tempered that they were thwarted and beaten in their own home..." He sighed, shaking his head. "I'm just not fond of the notion of you travelling in the wilds alone."

  


"Prince Angus is an excellent fighter, and both Iona and I have had our own weapons training, you know," she responded, then ticked her head to one side, her jaw tightening in challenge. "Are you offering to come along?"

  


He actually recoiled a little from the thought. "Gods, no."

  


She smiled not unkindly, unsurprised. "I'm joking. Angus and Iona wouldn't hear of it anyway. They feel as if they've taken up too much of your time as it is."

  


He cleared his throat, ducking his head a little. "When I first heard you screeching outside my caverns," he began, ignoring when she scoffed and rolled her eyes in annoyance, "I admit I was a bit...perturbed at the disturbance."

  


_"Perturbed?" _Moira echoed incredulously. "You tried to shut the door in our faces!"

  


"Regardless," he held up a hand for silence again, "I admit that having you...the three of you as guests has been...not awful." He grinned when she laughed outright, shaking her head and resting her fingers against her brow in a semblance of frustration.

  


"Honestly, you blueberry owl, you are a gift sometimes," she smirked, looking up at him once again, the slow blink of her eyes stunning him for a moment. She let her arms drop and stepped closer. "I'm sure I'll see you again at some point," she said, impulsively moving forward to embrace him quickly, then stepping back almost in the same breath. "Thank you," she whispered, turning to go.

  


"Holly--Moira," he called, surprising himself almost as much as her hug had. He reached up to unclasp his cloak, taking a step to drape it over her shoulders in a swirl of soft blue wool, the star patterns embroidered on it glittering in the candlelight. "You don't have a cloak. Borrow mine," he ordered gently, the lady gaping up at him in shock as she let him fasten the brooch over her throat. "It will give you an excuse to bother me--to see me again someday." He nodded once then retreated behind his desk as quick as was polite.

  


Moira blinked, as if she had been spellbound, still staring at him. "Thank you," she managed, reaching up to touch a rune embroidered on the fabric, the thread only a shade lighter so it nearly blended into the background.

  


He was back to his scrolls, the quill scratching even more furiously with its haste. "You're welcome," he replied, not daring to watch her as she walked out. Only when he could catch a flicker of his cloak as she cleared the door did he look, and then he slumped back in his chair, the tall, carved back biting in to his shoulders as he sighed.

  


It was a couple of hours into their trek when Iona voiced something that had been weighing on her mind. 

  


"Ralathor cares very deeply for you, Moira. I believe you should tell him you feel the same," she blurted out, her pace quickening to pull ahead. Had there been snow, she was certain a snowball would have been lobbed at her head.

  


Both Angus and Moira hurried to catch up, shock etched on their faces. 

  


"I beg your pardon?" the lady-in-waiting demanded, while at the same moment Angus asked, "How do you know he feels that way?"

  


Iona looked pointedly at her husband. "Remember when you were attempting to court me, and you lent me your cloak at the tourney? And you gave me that preposterous excuse that it would allow you to speak to me again when you wanted it back?"

  


He brightened instantly, dimples appearing beside his smile. "Oh, aye, I did!" He laughed, lifting her hand to kiss it before he sobered and offered a sympathetic smile to their friend. "She's right, he's mad for you."

  


"You're insane, both of you," Moira sighed, staring straight ahead.

  


Iona pushed at Angus' arm. "Tell her!"

  


"Tell her what, love? I'm coming in to this situation completely new!" he responded with a shrug, the leather of his armor creaking with the movement.

  


The princess sighed out a groan. "Honestly, Angus. Moira, you need to talk to Ralathor. I'm guessing you've been friends with him for a while?"

  


"Several years, actually. We met by accident at one of the stone circles near Dundee..." She smiled faintly at the memory.

  


The full moon rose high in a cloudless sky, the pinpricks of stars set into magenta and indigo swaths of galaxies spreading over the clear dome of night. It was cold with an occasional breeze to sing through the pines, but the bright coolness of the moonlight was a welcome lantern as Moira picked her way up to the stone circle.

  


The ring of rocks had been a sacred place for ages beyond record, an unknown power having split one of the upright monoliths, the stories to explain it ranging from a rampaging giant to a portal to another time gone horribly wrong. Whatever the cause, Moira had always enjoyed visiting the circle, the rush of power that flowed through her even when just standing near the structure nearly dizzying.

  


This night she needed to collect leaves and blossoms from a black clover that only grew at certain times of the year, and only at this particular site. The fact that the plant still flowered this far into the season was astonishing and lent much towards any spellwork that required strength and perseverance. 

  


As she drew close to her destination, she could see that a small fire had been lit within the ring, the flames a clean silver and blue that nearly blended in with the moonlight. It wouldn't have been spotted from far away because of its color, but its unusual appearance made the lady slow her pace to look carefully around for the person who had set the blaze.

  


"For someone trying to have a modicum of silence, you are quite loud, madame," a voice called out into the night, disdain dripping from every word.

  


"For someone who comes to a remote location for their craft, you send out quite a signal that you're here," she retorted, gathering her skirts and tromping up the hill the rest of the way.

  


A tall figure, cloaked in head-to-toe midnight blue, stepped out of the shadow of one of the monoliths, the silver light of his fire limning his features faintly. A goattee, neatly trimmed beneath a slightly crooked, aristocratic nose and dark, searching eyes above that were revealed as he slipped his hood back, raven hair caught back in a simple black leather band gleaming in the starlight.

  


Moira stopped, blinking in surprise, as she recognized both his face and the heavy silver and lapis lazuli brooch that clasped his cloak. "Master Ralathor. It's an honor." She swept a court curtsey, the amethyst velvet of her gown sweeping out prettily with the motion, the ebony curls of her hair falling loose over her shoulders.

  


"Oh, do get up," he sighed. "There's no need for such formalities. You sound like one of those over-powdered twits at the Auchtermuchty school." He paused, squinting at her face as she stood straight once more. "You're Maeve's daughter." It wasn't a question, and he smirked as she spluttered. "I know of your mother. One of the only decent sorceresses to have sat on the school's High Council. Good to see she's instilled in you some of her talents."

  


"I--thank you," she managed finally, finding herself unnerved and intrigued by this man. Ralathor's name was spoken only in hushed whispers by those within the community of magicks, his talent for runework unsurpassed, his power, supposedly, even greater than that of the Senior Archmages of Auchtermuchty's revered Academy of Alchemy, Sorcery, and Esoterica. "Yes, I'm Moira Hollywell. It's nice to meet you." She held out her hand, expecting him to bow over it as was custom for a woman of her station, but he only glanced down at it, grasped her fingers firmly in his, and gave it an up-and-down shake of greeting before letting go.

  


"That remains to be seen, Hollywell," he responded, moving away to check on his fire. "I suppose you've come here for the black clover?" he asked over his shoulder, 

  


She hurried to catch up with him, staring as he crouch down and etched a complicated series of runes in a glowing blue ring around the fire. "That's beautiful!" she murmured, unable to tear her gaze away from the glittering figures that suddenly began to dissolve like sand in a whirlpool, the flames pulling the magic into themselves.

  


Ralathor watched her admiring his work and tilted his head with a shrug as they both followed the sudden rise of icy smoke as it twirled up to the stars. "Yes, I suppose it is," he conceded. "I never thought about its aesthetic value, it just...is."

  


"What are you doing?" Moira asked, still watching the stars and suddenly grinning as constellation shone clearer above them, electric blue lines connection the stars into fanciful shapes. "Oh! Look, there's the swan!" She pointed, delighted when it dipped its head to her, its glimmering wings rising and falling for a moment.

  


She didn't see that Ralathor had caused the stellar creature to move that way, his fingers brushing through the air to manipulate the stars like a puppeteer, the sorcerer amused by her joy. "In a long-ago culture, that constellation represented a queen chained to her throne in the heavens for all time for insulting her gods."

  


Moira turned to frown at him, though her mouth still curved in its smile. "I prefer the swan, thank you, sir," she pronounced haughtily, now causing him to laugh quietly at her audacity.

  


He wasn't used to being spoken to in such a common manner. Indeed, in his years as a hermit, it had been a while since anyone had spoken to him at all, never mind this lovely naiad that had invaded his time. "To answer your question, I need to update my star chart records."

  


"Ah, well, then it's a brilliant notion to outline them like this," she replied. She took out a small work knife from the pouch on her hip as well as a muslin bag and walked over to where she knew a clump of the clover grew. "I'll just collect my supplies and leave you to it, if you don't mind." She knelt when she found what she needed, trying to stay quiet to let him work.

  


Ralathor watched as she bowed her head, soft words of thanks to the earth and the plant for their hard work to grow such a gift carrying to him on the breeze before she gently cut through the stems. She took only what was needed, nothing more, making sure the greenery had enough to continue to thrive and return the following year. As she stood again, tools secured in her bag, he turned away to settle on the ground with one of his scrolls. She had nearly stepped to the edge of the stones when he called out quietly, "You're welcome to stay. A second set of eyes might be helpful for this task."

  


Moira turned, the dark wings of her eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Are you asking for help, Master Ralathor?" she teased, setting her hands on her hips, the silver belt slung low on her hips flashing with the movement.

  


He coughed and pretended to glare at her. "Not if you continue to plague me with that attitude," he retorted, earning a laugh from her as she stepped lightly to him and sat down also. He fished out another star scroll and handed her his spare quill, the inkwell resting on a flat stone between them. "Don't make a mess," he ordered, returning to his work. "And it's simply 'Ralathor', Hollywell."

  


"More like 'hedgehog' for one so prickly as you." She muttered to her paper, glancing at him out of the corner of her eyes with a sly smile, and he snorted.

  


"Gooseberry witch," he responded, looking away as her smile grew, her giggle sliding away on the night winds.

  


Iona and Angus stared at their friend, both amused at the rosy tinge on her ivory cheeks. 

  


"I'd wondered why you looked so happy the next morning," Iona laughed. "You didn't come home until nearly dawn. I ought to have known that was when you met him."

  


Moira rolled her eyes and kept walking. "You read me too well," she sighed, stopping suddenly as they spotted two horsemen cresting a hill not far from them. "My friends, I think we've found our rescue party!" She waved, the royal couple joining in on the signal also, relief evident on everyone's faces as Ser Proletius and the Hootsman's steeds pounded down the turf to them.

  


"My prince!" Hoots lifted a hand in greeting, his smile wide. "Princess Iona, Lady Moira, how do you fare?" he called, slowing his horse to a trot that circled the party before coming to a halt.

  


"We are greatly relieved to see you all," Proletius added, arriving a moment later and slipping down from his horse to let Iona mount up. "There are a troop of my knights not too far away to the east," he informed then, lifting his arm to send his falcon winging into the sky to alert them.

  


The Hootsman also graciously dismounted to let Moira use his steed, and he held the stirrup steady for her as she grasped the pommel and reins and swung herself into the seat. A scent clinging to her gown and the star-and-rune-studded cloak caught his attention as she passed, and he looked up at her with a grin. "I suppose it helps to know what lurks beneath Cowdenbeath?" he asked.

  


She looked down at him, smiling ruefully. "Yes, I suppose it does," she agreed, scooting forward slightly and hooking her right knee around the saddle horn to sit sidesaddle.

  


He shrugged with a tilt of his head and vaulted up to sit behind her. "I've known the hermit for many an age. Occasionally I'll drag him out for an ale. I try not to drop in...too much." He chortled, knowing how much his visits annoyed his cave-dwelling friend.

  


"The Hermit Ralathor?" Proletius asked, smiling also. "I have not heard mention of him in a while. Good man, though he doesn't like such things to get around."

  


"He was very kind to us," Angus added as he seated himself behind his wife, thanking Proletius for lending them the horse. "He and the Lady Moira nursed me back to health, and he gave us warm hospitality by allowing us to stay in his home while I healed. I am deeply indebted to him."

  


They all noted that Angus specifically said that he, the Prince of Fife, owed Ralathor for his help, not just the kingdom.

  


"Aye, the old owl may act a bit grumpy," Hoots agreed, "but he has a good soul, in spite of himself." He laughed, taking the reins Moira handed to him as they started the journey home. He plucked at a fold of her cloak, speaking for her ears only. "I never thought I'd see him part with this, though."

  


"He's only lending it to me for a time," she informed him stiffly, glad to be facing the wind so she could blame her pink cheeks on the cold. She tugged the hood up over her hair. "I didn't have one, as it was left behind when we rescued His Highness, and Master Ralathor was gracious enough to allow me to borrow his."

  


Hoots' laugh rumbled against her back. "I have a feeling that is going to be an excellent tale for the fireside this evening," he swore. He patted her shoulder reassuringly. "The rescue, my lady, not the fact that you seem to have besotted our blueberry hermit."

  


He laughed even louder when she spluttered, the King of Unst letting her stew while he waved at the approaching knights.

  



	6. The Council Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Council of Auchtermuchty begins and confusion sours the party

Hoots settled back on one of the couches in the round patio Angus had installed in Iona's garden as a wedding gift. The patio, more of an outside room, boasted a pointed roof that acted as a chimney for the fire pit at its center, a ring of chairs, couches, and tables set around the low wall of the fire for relaxation. Three stone counters were set at intervals around the circle, pits for holding ice to keep bottles of ale and wine in set in to the cabinets. The open walls had large panels of colored glass that could be fitted together to block out cold, as they were now, or folded back like a jester's accordion to allow the cool breezes of summer to wash over the guests.

The barbarian took a large swallow of his ale, contemplating the flames dancing before his booted feet, then looked up as Angus walked in, sliding one of the glass panels open on its track, then slipping it back into place. 

"You look troubled," Hoots remarked, crossing his legs at the ankles as Angus crossed to one of the stone countertops to retrieve a bottle for himself.

The prince nodded and flopped down on his own couch, propping one foot on the stone wall. "Proletius just informed me that the Questlords are reporting missing unicorns," 

The Hootsman sat up, frowning. "How can that be? The valley is unknown to most, and even only a few of the highest Questlords know of its location. Or, how to gain access to it safely."

Angus shook his head in puzzlement and pushed a hand back through his hair. "Your guess is as good as mine, old friend," he sighed, drinking his own beer. "I've even been hearing tales of peasants missing from some of the smaller villages. We've had no snows deep enough to cause someone being lost in the woods, though it is always possible."

"But I'm going to surmise this is more than just one or two hunters getting lost off the trails or in a loch?"

"Correct."

"Do you wish for me to lead a party out and see what we can find?" the Hootsman offered, but the prince waved a hand. 

"I appreciate it, but for now I'm sending some of my own soldiers to investigate. If it escalates, and I hope it won't, I'll let you know," Angus promised.

The barbarian king settled back, one arm over his stomach as he crossed his legs. "Do you still want me to accompany you to the Auchtermuchty Council tomorrow?" he asked.

It had been several months since the prince's capture and rescue. Life in the mighty citadel of Dundee was back to normal, for the most part. 

"I do, yes," Angus replied. "Iona is coming with me, as we've received word that one of the mages presenting his work says he has a proposal that will potentially benefit the Royal House. I would have her with me to hear whatever it is, as I prefer to have her counsel as well."

"And the Lady Moira?" Hoots prompted. 

"Moira is attending also, acting in her mother's stead. The Duchess Hollywell and her husband are traveling to the Far East on a business trip to speak with the Duke's silk supplier. Unfortunately, the trip was planned well in advance of this Council session, and the Duchess was unable to change her travel plans," Angus explained, leaning forward and propping his forearms on his spread knees. "Moira will sit in her mother's place during the Council and is being granted voting rights, though should the Duchess decide the vote is not aligned with her agreement, reserves the right to potentially override the decision. What?" He broke off, grinning in answer to the Hootsman's own wide smile.

"Proud of you, boy," Hoots rumbled, sipping his drink to cover up the heat coming into his face. "You'll make a fine king one day. Listening to you speak so formally, so confidently. 'Tis a pleasing thing indeed."

Angus ducked his head, the thick fringe of his hair hiding his own pleased smile at the praise. "My thanks," he mumbled. He cleared his throat. "As I was saying, yes, I would appreciate you accompanying us for this. Proletius will be coming along as well. He says his scalp is itching, which is never a good sign."

Hoots snorted derisively. "If he'd wear a bloody hat over that great, shining pate of his, he wouldn't be 'itchy'." He shrugged, drinking again. "Regardless, it'll be enjoyable to take a trip together again. And this time around, we'll get to see a magic show!"

The prince laughed, raising his bottle in a silent toast, Hoots returning the gesture, and the two men settled back to enjoy the fire.

The great council chamber of Auchtermuchty was slowly filling with people, their voices rising and falling against the colourful banners hanging on the ancient stone walls. The school was a bustle of energy on any given day, but with the influx of visitors that morning, especially when Prince Angus himself rode in with the Princess Iona by his side, the excitement was enough to nearly send sparks flying.

The royal couple and their friends were seated in a small parlour near the council room to refresh before the meeting began, a few members of the High Council in there as well to make sure any of their needs were seen to.

Moira stood on the outskirts, watching the conversations and trying to quell the flutter of her stomach. Nerves were not something she was accustomed to dealing with, but with serving as both her mother's representative as a sorceress and as a member of a royal house, she was in a territory unfamiliar to her.

A mirror hanging nearby caught her attention and she crossed to it, checking her appearance. Iona had teased her for wearing Ralathor's cloak to this occasion, never mind that it had become an almost daily addition to her ensemble. The soft fabric, though worn in a few places from its age, was still beautiful with its swirling embroidery, and the still-lingering scent of the caverns that clung to it was a comfort. The lapis brooch was a compliemnt to her own jewelry, a matched suite of lapis and amethyst with a delicate silver circlet entwined through her hair, a drop of the gold-flecked blue stone resting on her brow. She frowned, wondering if she shouldn't have worn the tiara, that it was perhaps too ostentatious, even in its simplicity.

She backed away from the glass, not noticing the aged witch behind her until she'd nearly bowled her over.

"Oh! Madame Gerhart, I do apologize!" Moira gasped, helping the old lady to stand straight and adjust the folds of her rose-colored robes.

Steely blue eyes peered at her from behind diamond-shaped spectacles before the apple-shaped face broke into a smile. "Little Moira Hollywell! Oh, what a delight it is to see the Princess of Auchtermuchty returned!" she chirped, reaching up to pat at the lady's cheek. "Bless you, duckie, but you always did take such great care with your appearance while you attended here. If only you had devoted so much time to your studies, no?" She chuckled, looking down at Moira's clothes. "Such a lovely dress, but that cloak, dear heart....Rather ratty old thing, isn't it? I suppose you never did get a hang of those glamour spells to make something look better, did you? Or at least a decent tracking spell to find something else! Though, it did help you find that missing earring when you lost it in the library, didn't it? What you were doing there escapes me, seeing as how you never seemed fond of doing research, especially when it came to floramancy."

"Actually, the Lady Moira does quite well with her herbs and spells," a new voice spoke up from behind her, Moira's eyes opening wide before she turned slowly to stare at Ralathor.

His hair was left loose, brushed and settled in natural curls that settled over the shoulders of a deep blue cowl, amethysts winking here and there on the embroidery. Below that a tunic of lapis-blue suede covered a silk shirt the color of thunderclouds. Leggings dyed to match the shirt disappeared into a pair of slouching black leather boots, and a cloak of twilight black draped from his shoulders to the floor, giving the sorcerer the appearance of an approaching storm.

He smiled down at her and smoothly pulled her to his side. "Indeed, it wasn't all that long ago that she saved me from making a most grievous mistake when I was brewing a potion for our beloved Prince Angus. Had my lady not been there, the results could have been disastrous."

Madame Gerhart recovered more quickly than he had originally given her credit for as she stared from his face to Moira's and back again. "Oh! Oh, I see now. Moira, that's his cloak. With his brooch! Oh, dear child, why didn't you tell me in the first place, you silly goose!" she chortled, grabbing the speechless woman's hand and patting it enthusiastically. "Well! Many blessings to the both of you on your betrothal!"

"Our...our what?" Moira gasped, but her old teacher was already tottering away, in search of another former student. She turned to blink up at the hermit. "I don't recall you ever asking for my hand," she hissed, taking him by the arm and leading him to a quiet corner of the room.

Ralathor, for his part, had turned the shade of watery milk after the exchange. "Oh gods...I didn't even think...!" he muttered to himself, closing his eyes for a moment and shaking his head rapidly. He opened them again to look down at her worriedly, though Moira was gazing away from him, her trembling fingers running over the cabochon on the brooch. "Hollywell...she's...that was never my intention for you at all!" he spluttered, terror shattering through his veins, and her eyes locked onto his with ferocity.

"I would never have thought so, you moss-covered grouse!" she retorted, fumbling with the clasp then sighing in relief when she got it open. She wrenched his cloak off and shoved it into his hands, trembling from head to toe in barely-restrained fury. Tears sent hot shards into the corners of her eyes at his rejection, even at the false possibility of being engaged to her, but she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

She looked up as the door to the parlor opened, a page announcing that the council was about to begin and could they all take their places in the corridor to be announced? Moira looked across the room to Iona, who was staring at her in concern, but was unable to get away from the conversation she and Angus were currently holding with another council member. The raven-haired sorceress offered a soothing smile then moved to leave, Ralathor slumped against the wall behind her and staring blindly at the fabric in his hands.

He hurried after her, trying to explain, or be given an explanation from her, only to be directed into his place in the queue as the council was announced to the gathering.

He stumbled to his seat, trying to piece together what had just happened, the back of his neck clammy with confusion and anxiety. He didn't care that he'd left the Summoner gaping at him as the youth had been announcing his name "The Hermit Ralathor of Cowdenbeath, Senior High Councillor of Auchtermuchty..." his other titles trailing off lamely. He just wished he'd never agreed to attend this fiasco.  
He pulled the hood of his cowl up, glaring at the room from its depths, not liking that one of the amethysts he'd had sewn into it caught on his hair to tug painfully. He could only hope this damned meeting would end soon and he could retreat home and never have to face society again. His mouth twisted as the Summoner pounded his staff on the floor, signalling the entrance of nobility, and he couldn't tear his eyes away as Moira stood in the doorway, her face serene.

"Her Royal Highness, the Princess Moira of Hollywell, daughter of the Duke and Duchess Hollywell, Sorceress of Dundee, Lady-in-Waiting to the House of Fife, Holder of the Sacred Chalice of Riix..."

The announcer's voice droned on, but Ralathor's head spun even more with his words. A princess. A Royal Highness, no less. Of course she was, he groaned inwardly. Daughter of a Duke, how could she not be? How had he never realized...? No wonder the very notion of being betrothed to him turned her verdant green eyes to disdainful jade as she scorned him, even though there had never been a proposal. How would he have dared? How could he have? What would a lady such as herself ever want with a dusty, musty, unsociable, cave-dwelling, tattered hermit like himself?

Moira sank into her seat, nodding with polite smiles to the mages around her, her face a carefully constructed mask to cover the turmoil in her heart and mind. Her thumb traced nervous circles over the dome of her ring, the irregular shape of the gold channels in the deep blue stone bumping against her finger with each pass. She wanted to wrench the jewelry from her hand, cast it and the other pieces into the moat after she'd burned them. Stupid, foolish dreams, she scolded herself. To wear his color in secret everyday, though in glaringly plain sight. Her collection of lapis lazuli jewelry had grown over the years she'd known the hermit, her first piece acquired in the marketplace of Marrakesch on a royal tour. The lush blue stone had caught her eye, even among the vibrant colors of other gemstones and silks at the merchant's stand, her thoughts immediately flying to the image of her friend in his cave, the brooch on his cloak set with the same jewel. She'd bought it immediately, the ring on her hand every day since. 

Only one person had guessed at her subterfuge: the Hootsman. Not even the ever-observant Iona had an inkling of her jewelry's symbolism, the princess merely adding to the menagerie whenever she came across a sister piece. Moira glanced over to the barbarian king, who was sitting as comfortably as he could beside Angus, his arms crossed as he surveyed the crowd. He caught her gaze, a frown darkening his blue eyes, and she tried to perk up, realizing her thoughts were probably too close to the surface and showing on her face. He arched a skeptical eyebrow that told her he was going to want a word with her later before he looked away, and she stifled a grimace before she stole a look at Ralathor.

He sat on the same curved level of seats she was, though several people away. He had pulled his hood up, shadowing his face, and Moira wished she had the same freedom. She wanted nothing more than to go home and burrow under her blankets for the next several days. Perhaps months.

Part of her envied the fact that he could return to his cave and not have to deal with the outside world if he so chose, while she, after this dungpile of a morning, would have to return to the court of Dundee where she would have to bandage her wounded spirit as best she could while presenting the cool demeanor of Iona's confidante and guardian. Another part of her wanted to stand up and march over to Ralathor that instant and demand just was was so wretched, so damning, about her that just the notion of being joined to her for life would bring such a pallor to his face? She was clever, talented and pleasant, she knew. So her powers weren't up to his level, but then could any claim so, even the assemblage seated here? She'd always tried to be respectful to him, even in her teasing. She'd learned to cook to make sure that he ate, at least when she was visiting his home. She cleaned up any mess she might make, either during her stays in the caverns or while working in his spellroom. Granted, she had nearly singed half his hair off with a portable-lantern spell she had been developing, but it had grown back, even curlier than before.

Her feelings hadn't always run so deep for him. Their friendship had taken time to grow, their first few meetings random and spread out over several months. The first time she'd been to visit his cave had been unintentional. She'd come across him napping behind a thicket of blackberry vines in the woods, a basket of wilting herbs and roots beside him.


	7. Sickness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What to do with a sick sorcerer?

The first time Moira had been to visit his cave had been unintentional. She'd come across him napping behind a thicket of blackberry vines in the woods, a basket of wilting herbs and roots beside him.

His already pale skin had been even more wan, violet circles shading beneath his bloodshot eyes, and his nose had been as red as a holly berry at Yuletide. He'd blinked up at her blearily when she'd crouched next to him and gently touched his arm, the hermit too exhausted to even flinch at the touch.

"Ralathor?" Moira asked quietly, her brows drawing together. She reached up and set the back of her hand on his forehead, sticky sweat and hot skin making her groan in sympathy. "Why are you out here, you silly wizard?" she demanded, tugging at his arm to make him sit up. "Where's your house, you should be in bed!"

The hermit pushed himself up, his head aching and swimming with congestion, and he bit back a whimper. "Do stop your interrogation, madame," he rasped, the raw pain in his throat stealing his voice. "My home is..." He looked around, squinting as a fine drizzle began to fall, obscuring the path through the trees. He sighed, hanging his head for a moment, then thought better of it when it made his headache worse. "Take my hand, Hollywell," he ordered. "And I suggest you sit down."

She started to question him, then simply did as told, her bottom hitting the dried pine needles below her just as Ralathor sketched a shaky collection of runes before them, his hand suddenly slashing through them and opening, what looked like, a rip in the scenery. Beyond the gap was a darkness like the lady had never seen, and she yelped when the hold widened and approached them rapidly, swallowing the pair in a second.

Her shriek was lost before it could even echo.

The next thing she knew, they were deposited on his bed. A fire in the hearth across the room immediately sprang into existence, the candles and torches set in holders on rough-hewn rock walls lighting at the same moment.

Ralathor dropped back onto his pillows with a nasally moan, a long sigh of relief leaving him.

"Hold on there, my blue hedgehog, let's get you into some proper bed clothes first," Moira insisted, crawling off of the patchwork coverlet and putting the herb basket on a nearby small table. She slipped off her shoes so as not to track any possible mud on his carpets and noticed a soft, oatmeal-colored tunic draped over a nearby chair. "Here, go change, and I'll get you tucked in," she said, handing him the garment while he swung his legs off of the bed with a grumble.

He wobbled off to the wardrobe chamber and bathroom, Moira taking the opportunity to look around the room. It was quiet, though she thought she could hear some kind of clockwork and water dripping somewhere close, and the air was still somewhat chilly despite the cheerful blaze of the fire. The walls glittered with veins and spikes of crystals, and old tapestries of battles, gardens, fantastic creatures, and ornately-dressed ladies hung here and there to chase away any potential bleakness from the stone. The furniture was a hodge-podge of styles, some the carving-heavy woods of the Scottish isles, others of a style she'd never seen with lighter wood but no less heavy carvings. All were old and scarred from their age and use, but they had been well cared for and carried a restful energy. He had cabinets and bookshelves here and there, knickknacks and curiosities scattered amongst the tomes, some of whom had titles in languages she didn't recognize, and others she wasn't sure if what she was seeing was a language. She wanted to investigate more, but Ralathor returned at that moment, looking more comfortable in his sleeping clothes.

She smiled at the sight of his bare feet, something innocent and sweet about seeing him undressed in that manner making her heart swell a little. "Let's get you to bed," she offered, crossing over and drawing back the blankets then fluffing the piles of pillows gathered at the headboard. She held the covers up for him and he sank down on the mattress then looked up at her, just sitting on the edge.

"Why?" he asked, swallowing painfully and she grimaced and reached out a hand to rest it on top of his head, her fingers stroking his hair soothingly as she would have done were Iona ill. 

"Because you don't seem to have anyone to help you, and you're my friend," she shrugged, tilting her head with a sad smile.

"Now then, settle back," she ordered, waving at his pillows and Ralathor complied with a smirk, watching her as she fussed with the covers, settling them over him with a maternal flourish. She stepped back and set her hands on her hips, surveying her handiwork and then smiling down at the hermit. "I'm going to go and fix you something to drink and get some soup started," she said firmly, brooking no argument from him.

He sighed. "Kitchen is down the hall and to your right," he relented. He frowned a little, something nagging him. "Won't Dundee be missing you?" he asked, not wanting to incur the wrath of the royal household for absconding with its companion.

Moira shook her head. "No, Iona and Angus are on the continent for the next two weeks. I opted to stay behind and have a bit of a holiday by myself."

He raised an eyebrow at her cheery smile. "And you're choosing to spend it here with me?" he said dryly, surprised. He wasn't the best company when he was healthy. His temper was even shorter when he was ill.

She shrugged, pulling hair pins out of her reticule at her waist and coiling up her hair in preparation for her tasks ahead. "Why not? This is much more interesting than puttering about the citadel." She ignored how he started when she reached down and squeezed one of his hands. "Just rest. I'll be back in a little while," she promised before straightening and walking out, stocking feet pattering softly on the stone floor. She peeked back around the door and Ralathor peered over at her. "Where are we, by the way?" she asked. 

"Under Cowdenbeath. Behind one of the cliff faces near the forest."

She blinked and squinted a little, trying to place where he was describing, then her face lit up. "Oh! I know where we are, then. Goodness, you do like your privacy!" She laughed and walked away, amazed that he had transported them so far. Her day had started out with a walk in the woods near the citadel, and now she was nearly sixty kilometres from home in a blink.

Ralathor lay back and stared up at the panels of cloth that formed a half-canopy above his bed, the drapes ranging from deepest navy to a frosty grey-blue. He'd chosen the colors to be soothing. He stared at them in anger, wondering why they weren't doing their job. As the Mage of Cowdenbeath, it went along with the job that it was a solitary position. And he preferred it that way. To have someone in his inner sanctum was disquieting, to have someone there who was being given free reign of it since he was too tired to even protest was terrifying.  
He took a few slow breaths, trying to remind himself that Moira was an adult and a very capable sorceress. She knew better than to mess with any project he may have left lying around, and she certainly knew how to be polite in someone else's home. He really had nothing to worry about.

But what if she caught her sleeve on fire? That stove in the kitchen was tricky. And what if she misread a label on a bottle and accidentally poisoned herself? What would he do? How would he explain it to Prince Angus that his wife's beloved friend was dead because she mistook a bottle of nightshade for cinnamon? What if she pulled out the wrong book on the bookshelf hidden in the farthest library chamber that only he had a key to? That one tome he'd picked up eons ago on some island up north, he really couldn't recall the name at that moment, but the place with those fuzzy trolls that kept getting underfoot...

His thoughts sputtered to a halt when Moira came back in, her sleeves rolled up out of her way and her trailing lavender skirts knotted up and looped over her belt to let her feet move freely. He averted his eyes, noting that she'd removed her stockings and was adorably barefoot. She'd even tied one of his old aprons over the delicate silk of her dress, and her cheeks were rosy from the hearth as she smiled at him, a sturdy earthenware mug in her hand.

"Tea!" she announced, setting it on the table beside the bed. "I also added some honey for your throat and some elderberry syrup to help you get rid of this faster."

Ralathor looked her up and down, searching for any scrapes or scorch marks. "You look to be in one piece," he observed, scooting himself up to sit higher and get his drink.

Moira laughed and shook her head. "Honestly, I'm not incapable, you know," she chided. "I'm learning to cook, but I can make tea at least."

He sipped gingerly at the brew, tasting the orange peel and cinnamon she'd also added, a hint of rosehip sliding under the taste of elderberry. "This is quite excellent," he murmured, closing his eyes as he felt a soft brush of amethyst-colored energy spreading through him with each swallow. "You're a healer," he said quietly, not a question. "This is why you do so well with the princess, you're naturally nurturing."

She blushed, folding her arms and looking away at his praise. "That's from my mother's side. Her mother had a penchant for healing and I spent several summers at her house." She smiled wistfully, remembering the tiny cottage tucked into the woods, vines of roses covering its simple walls and thatched roof. "Nan is a force of nature," she laughed softly. She looked back to find Ralathor watching her, his gray eyes solemn.

"Thank you for the tea," he said, nodding his head in a semblance of a bow. 

"You're quite welcome, Master Ralathor," she replied. "Now, you get some rest, I'll see to some soup. yes?"

He nodded, drinking a bit more then setting the cup aside before he slid down and nestled into his pillows with relief. Moira watched as his eyes closed, and she lifted a hand, fingers trailing over the delicate strings of magic slipping through the air on their own. She touched them like harp strings, sending her intention through the threads and quieting the candle flames to a sleepy glow, sending smoky topaze shadows through the room before she went back to the kitchen.

It was a few hours later when the soup was bubbling away merrily on the stove that Moira decided to explore her new surroundings. A little ways down the corridor from the kitchen was a spacious library cavern, a heavy desk set in the middle of the room with a few lopsided stacks of books set on its battered top. She walked around it, peering down at the papers left there, the handwriting spidery but precise, diagrams sketched here and there. She'd always loved to see how others 'saw' their magic, the shape of it, how it moved, how they built their own spells and rituals. It was fascinating to see a bit into her friend's mind and practice. She moved away, her hands held loosely behind her back as she walked to the shelves set into the walls, drinking in the wealth of books stored there. She could almost hear them whispering their secrets, voices of authors long past, some, she was sure, still to come, languages flowing like water over stones, others staccato voices that rasped like guttering candles in a snowy night. She longed to pull them from their resting places and listen to them, read their stories in one of the plush chairs Ralathor had set around the room, inviting one to sit for a few hours and explore a new reality.   
But she heard the sound of coughing coming from down the hall and she knew her patient was awake. She hurried out, glad she'd thought to go ahead and set an ewer of water and a cup by his bed for just this sort of occasion.

"I'll be there, I'm coming!" she called, swinging through the doorway to the bedroom and blinking in shock at the indignant creature tucked against the pillows, blinking at her with large, gray eyes.

"Ral-Ralathor?" she whispered, holding her hands out soothingly in front of her, the sudden ruffling of feathers as he shook himself making her mouth drop open. "Oh dear..."

The Tawny owl sneezed suddenly, going into a puffed sphere of feathers for an instant with the action, and she clapped her hands over her mouth to stifle the sudden peal of laughter at how adorable he looked.

"I'm sorry!" she exclaimed when he glared at her. She brought the candlelight up a little, careful not to make it too bright as the bird had naturally light-sensitive eyes, and was surprised to see that its feathers were more blue than brown. With its markings, it even looked as if it wore a blue cowl. "Oh dear..." she muttered again, propping her hands on her hips and sighing gustily. "How did this happen? Is this part of your illness?" She stopped suddenly, her eyes widening. "Are you really an owl who prefers a human form?" she whispered excitedly, jumping when Ralathor hooted loudly at her, jeering at the ridiculous question.

"Alright, alright! Don't moult on the bedclothes just because you're peeved!" She glared at him. "Honestly, just give me a moment to adjust to this, alright? I was expecting to come back in here and maybe find you just looking even more congested and miserable, not...not...well this!" She waved her hands at his avian form. She sat down on the bed, looking over at him as he turned his head to nibble at an itch under his wing, and bit her lip to stifle another giggle.

How would she fix this, she started to fret. She knew her own powers would occasionally go awry when she was sick, but turning into a completely different species...that hadn't happened. "I'm going to go look in your library and see if I can find anything to tell me what to do for you," she said, getting back up. "Um, before I go," she began, turning back around. "Are you thirsty?"

Ralathor looked over at the glass on his table, then looked back up at her, the dry disapproval in his large eyes clear as day.   
"Right. Well..." She looked around the room, then walked back towards his wardrobe, Ralathor peering after her in worry. 

Moira returned in a couple of moments, winding one of his belts around her forearm like a gauntlet and buckling it. She rested her arm on the mattress, the wizard looking down at the leather binding, impressed in spite of himself at her ingenuity, then back up at her face.  
"Well, I don't think it's fair of me to go poking about in your home without you," she shrugged. "Would you like to come with me to the kitchen and I'll get you a drink?"

He looked back down at her arm, then carefully lifted a talon-tipped foot and delicately stepped onto her. The weight of him wasn't as heavy as she'd thought, and she lifted him easily once he'd settled. Moira smiled at him, tentatively lifting her hand to run a finger over his head. She was delighted when his eyes closed in pleasure, a small, trilling hoot escaping from the affection.

She grinned, repeating the motion a few more times before remembering that he needed water, and she set out to retrieve him some.


	8. In Hoots We Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visitor comes to the Caves, and the Council gets a nasty surprise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Warning: The end of the chapter will have a few graphic descriptions of horror. I'll put a row of asterisks and some space before it as warning.

"Twig?! Where are you hiding?"

The voice boomed through the caverns, making Moira jump out of her chair, the owl seated on the desk beside her launching himself into the air in a flurry of feathers.

"Who in the hells in that?" Moira hissed, watching as Ralathor alighted on top of a bookshelf, hooting to himself in irritation. She stopped when the person continued to bellow, and the voice became familiar.

"Hootsman?" she called, standing up and hurrying out into the hall. Her face broke into a huge smile as she spotted the tall barbarian king in the workroom, rain still clinging to the hood of his furred cloak. A large bag was slung over his back, filled with stuffs she could only guess at.

"Your Grace?" he laughed in surprise, the arm not holding the bag swinging out to invite an embrace, that she happily ran in to. He dropped a kiss on top of her hair, squeezing her warmly and lifting her off of her feet for a second. "What are you doing here?"

"Ralathor fell ill so I've been caring for him." The rustle of feathers from the corridor alerted her in time and she lifted her leather-wrapped arm to give the sorcerer a perch after he'd flown into the room.

The King of Unst stared for a moment at the blue raptor sitting docilely on the lady's arm before bursting out into a laugh so great, tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. "Oh no, he shifted!" he roared, having to set down his bag so he could slap at the tabletop in glee. "He must be sick for him to do that! The last time I saw him in this state was at least several decades past."

He reached up and plucked the bird off of his perch without any warning, Ralathor releasing a wild screech just before Hoots stuffed him down the front of his tunic and snuggled him. "He likes to be warm when he's sick!" he informed her, raising his voice over the sounds of struggling owl, random lumps pushing his tunic out as the wizard fought his imprisonment.

"I-I don't think he's enjoying that!" Moira said worriedly, watching in amazement as the fight ceased, either because the warmth of Hoots actually soothed the sick bird, or he just knew resistance was futile.

"Nonsense!" Hoots held a hand under the lump in his shirt and gently patted the creature with the other. "Wol knows what's good for him."

"Wol?" Moira asked, puzzled.

"Misspelling of 'owl' and it sounds more adorable. Because wols are adorable!" he cooed at the bird in his tunic, pulling the neck of the garment away to grin in at his friend, Ralathor hooting in a rather rude tone. Hoots clucked his tongue at him in disappointment. "Such language, Wolathor, and in front of the lady, too!" he scolded. He yelped when the owl nipped at his stomach in warning.

"Hoots, what brings you here?" the sorceress asked, trying to distract the two from destroying each other.

Hoots blinked blankly, then, "Ah! Yes. I was bringing some food for our hermit here so he wouldn't have to deal with the marketplace." He carefully bent over to retrieve the bag, then followed Moira into the kitchen.

"That's very kind of you!" she smiled, standing aside as he swung the bag up onto a counter and opened it with one hand. "Here, I'll do that," she offered and Hoots moved back to accommodate her. 

He inspected her outfit, which had changed from her gown of three days prior, to a pair of Ralathor's trousers, the ankles of which were rolled up to make allowances for her petite stature as compared to the hermit. One of his tunics fell to almost her knees, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows and belted with a worn apron. Her hair she'd twisted back into a Grecian chignon, wrapped in a thin blue scarf to keep it out of her face. She looked perfectly comfortable in the ensemble, and he was enjoying seeing her small frame dwarfed by Ralathor's garments, simply because he could only imagine how irritated his friend was by the invasion.

Then again, he pondered, watching the ease with which she moved around the room, and the way the enchanted hermit had flown straight to her, carefully situating himself on her arm as if he were worried about harming her. Perhaps Ralathor wasn't bothered the invasion of his wardrobe so much.

Hoots peered down into his tunic, fully expecting to see rage-filled gray eyes peering back at him, and was surprised to find that the owl had fallen asleep. He smiled and settled down into a chair nearby, careful not to jostle his cargo, while Moira finished putting away the supplies. 

"How long has this been going on?" he asked, leaning back and crossing his legs, his arms scooping under the bird to hold him in place.

Moira shook her head, standing on tiptoes to plop apples into a hanging basket. "I've been here several days. I found him in the woods, asleep and feverish, and he brought us here. He seems to be doing better," she guessed, lifting a shoulder and taking out the bag of sugar to pour it into its jar. "His energy level has improved, and so has his appetite. I let him out to fly and hunt last night and he came back looking rather pleased with himself." She folded the sack the sugar had been in and tucked it away in a drawer before facing Hoots. "I've never really gotten to care for a bird before, so this has been something of a learning experience. Proletius has shown me some of the caretaking with his Eagles and with the falconer at the citadel, but this is just a tad different."

Hoots chuckled, rocking slightly in the chair. "I should say so, my lady!"

Moira went over to the stove to check on the potatoes, onions, and carrots she was boiling, the beginnings of a shepherd's pie gathered on the countertop. "You're welcome to stay for supper, if you'd like," she invited, and he grinned toothily.

"I'll take you up on that offer," he replied, bobbing his head in thanks. "Especially since I'll have access to the Twig's ale stores!"

She leveled him with a beady eye. "You'll not imbibe too much, Hoots. I have enough to deal with with him." She nodded to the bulge in his shirt that was rising and falling with tiny, trilling snores. "Not including, he would be in a fine temper when he's back to himself and finds his cellar ransacked by you. And I'll, no doubt, have to hear the tirade." She grinned to let him know she wasn't really cross, and he winked back.

"Very well, tiny bird, I'll be respectful of your hermit's stores," he promised, his mind beginning to turn over with how protective she seemed of the blue sorcerer. He would have to seek out Proletius' ear once he left her company. "Would you like any help with your cooking?" he asked, delighted by the way she deftly chopped more carrots and added them to the pot, a few sprinkles of herbs soon following. The kitchen already smelled delicious with the herbs and candles Ralathor kept around, but there was something more now, there was a domestic air to the place from the lady's care, making it seem more of a home than a simple living space.

She smiled and stirred the pot, then plopped a large skillet onto the stove to begin warming, a swirl of butter and garlic added to season the pan. "I think I'm alright, but I thank you," she answered, grinning over at him. "This is quite fun, actually. It's a bit like spellwork, making sure to add the right ingredients, making sure to keep a pleasant mindset so as not to spoil the taste...I hope I'll get to do this a bit more once I return to Dundee. But, if not, perhaps, Ralathor will allow me to invade his kitchen once in a while."

"If he won't, I'll be delighted to have your company in Unst where you can have the run of the kitchens if you so please," he said magnanimously, quieting his laughter when the owl shifted in his sleep and resumed snoring.

Moira nodded once, wrapping a towel around the skillet handle to slide the butter around before she added some cubed meat to brown. "I may take you up on that offer, Your Majesty," she grinned. 

Ralathor sighed, staring at a tapestry on the council chamber wall, his thoughts still swimming back in the past of when he finally awoke from his illness several days after Hoots' arrival.

The king had opted to stay over a few more nights to lend a hand, and while Moira was grateful for the company, and the assistance in the care of a snotty owl, the hermit still recalled how exhausted she looked when he'd come back to himself in his bed. 

The bedclothes had been changed, the sheets smelling sweetly of lavender from the washwater Moira had used, the lady herself curled up on the low couch across the room. She was bundled in one of his spare blankets, sprawled gracelessly on her back with a book open over her stomach. One pale foot poked out from the quilt, dangling above the floor, her hair a riot of curls, some of which clung to one of her cheeks, plastered there by the drool from her slumber.

And Ralathor was certain his fever must still be in play, because his chest suddenly tightened when he realized she had to be the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

His eyes widened as the warm feelings spreading through his heart were suddenly plunged into an icy pool, anxiety slamming through him and sending his heart racing.  
He couldn't love her. He couldn't subject her to the danger of himself, what if his powers went awry. He'd just spent the better part of a week as an owl because of illness, what if something worse happened? What if he went out of his mind somehow and hurt her?

His gaze fell on her gown that she'd hung up out of the way, her jeweled circlet of office and necklace hung with the garment that glittered in the shadowy firelight. He looked quickly back to her, Moira dressed in another of his tunics, the pale skin of her arm peeking through a moth-eaten hole in the sleeve, the threadbare blanket wrapped around her surely not enough to keep her warm, despite how comfortable she seemed. He groaned inwardly, noting her dirty feet from walking through his caves, soot still clinging to her fingertips from stoking the fire before bed. She was a highborn lady, daughter of royalty, inevitably meant to be some lord's bride in a political maneuver to join two great Houses. He had no business telling her how he felt, trying to convince her to live beneath the mountains like a mole. 

He shook his head, uncaring of the litany of titles that followed his name in the magical circles of the land. What did that matter compared to the wealth and grandeur of nobility? She was destined for greater than he, and he'd be damned if he attempted to pull her underground with himself.

Ralathor rubbed weak fingers over his eyes and tugged at his goattee, glaring down at the young mage standing before the council, the man's nervous energy irritating him as the memories pushed at his brain. He didn't want to be here. He wanted to be home. He couldn't care less for the pageantry of this day. 

He cast a glance at Moira, whose back was ramrod straight, her face a shade paler than usual, and he sat up higher in his seat in concern. Was she ill? What was wrong?

He looked around the room, finding nothing out of the ordinary, especially with their friends. There was a faint ripple of unease sliding under the energy of the room, something that linked deep into the rocks beneath the castle, as if the earth were tasting something it didn't enjoy. With Moira's power being linked to her environment, he was concerned as to what was affecting her.

Even though she may not want him, he still at least considered her a friend, and it displeased him greatly to see her uncomfortable.

But he couldn't discern what had set her so on edge. Looking down at the speaker a man of average height with dark hair that curled riotously over the cowl of his black and silver robes, Ralathor bit back a curse and stood up in a crouch to walk behind the chairs to Moira's seat.

The mage on the floor continued to speak, blathering on about some kind of enhancement to Dundee's military might, but the hermit paid him no heed as he knelt by the princess' chair.

"Hollywell," he murmured, reaching up to cover her hand with his, and her face turned quickly to him.

"Blueberry," she breathed, relief flashing in her eyes for a moment to have him close by before he saw true fear sliding in to her gaze.

"What troubles you?" he asked, pushing his hood back to look at her unhindered. He glanced down at the speaker, realizing that he was the source of her anxiety. He frowned, still holding her hand, and Moira turned her palm up to grasp at his fingers for comfort.

"...In the interest of preserving life and lessening the worry of loss, I propose the use of necromancy to swell the ranks of our mighty soldiers," the mage said, reaching in to his pocket and settling a pair of spectacles on his nose, their multitude of lenses adding an almost manic appearance to his face.

His admittance made the room immediately erupt in protest, and Moira swallowed heavily against a wave of nausea as the black-robed man moved to a set of side doors in the chamber, ignoring the shouts of the council and audience.

"Think of it, people of Dundee and Auchtermuchty!" he exclaimed, still smiling as if he'd suggested donating a new flock of chickens to each household in the kingdom. "No more concern over losing family to war, to the draining of ranks of our steeds should they fall in battle!"

"Ralathor..." Moira muttered, looking swiftly down at him, and he stood to his full height as her fingers trembled in his.

Below them, the mage fitted a key into one of the doors, the sound of the lock undoing louder than should be normal, as if a great weight had fallen to shake the ground.  
"Hear me, good people!" the mage ordered. "I, the Great Mage Zargothrax, will deliver unto you an army the likes of which the world will remember always!" 

****************************************************************************************************************************************************************

He threw open the doors, and the scent of death rolled out into the chamber, preceding the shrill call of a unicorn, though it sounded as if it had been culled from the deepest nightmares of a madman.

Moira screamed as an abomination trotted out, the undead stallion moving with limping steps like a broken toy to the one called Zargothrax, its once-pearlescent horn dulled and chipped, its milky eyes allegedly blind, though it walked true to its master.

Zargothrax smiled at the chaos he'd unleashed in the chamber, laughing as even more ensorceled corpses staggered out, trying to reach the people with grasping hands and gaping mouths.


	9. What We Say In the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do not tell Moira no. It will just end badly for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Moira is claustrophobic and has a panic attack. Please take this into account if you have such issues.

Moira shot to her feet, Iona's name immediately on her lips as she searched the room for the princess, relieved to see that Angus had drawn his dagger and had pushed his wife behind himself. Proletius and the other guards were acting quickly, moving the couple through the crowd and out a door while the gathering scrambled to get out of the way of the groaning undead.

Hoots had his own dagger drawn and was fighting his way out as well, torn between clearing a path and staring in horror at the peasants trying to eat him. These were villagers, innocents who had been captured and tangled in Zargothrax's twisted plans.

Spells flew through the air, striking the unicorns and peasants alike, the Scourge of Auchtermuchty no-where to be seen amidst the screaming crowd.

"I'm getting you out of here," Ralathor grated, his hand curling around Moira's upper arm as she stood, frozen in horror at the scene below. He checked to make sure the prince and his company were out of the room safely before he grabbed at open air and ripped a tear in reality, pulling the raven-haired princess with him.

They emerged in another hallway, the shouts of students and staff echoing through the campus, and the pounding of feet nearby had him tugging her into a dark linen closet, shutting the door firmly behind them.

"We have to help them!" Moira spluttered, coming back to herself now that her eyes weren't filled with the flesh-eating horrors of the council room.

She tried to head back to the door, her hands outstretched in the dark, but Ralathor pulled her back.

"We're not rushing back in there without some kind of plan. Noble gestures will only get you killed, or worse, turned into one of those things!" he countered, his voice rising as she pushed at him.

"We can't just leave them to suffer that fate!" she insisted, barely able to see from the meager light trickling in from under the door. "I'm not going to hide in here in the dark while others are afraid!" She tried to break free of his grasp, the close quarters of the closet starting to steal her breath.

"You mean like I do in my cave?" Ralathor snarled back, her fear making his own rise, the trembling strikes of her hands on his chest becoming more frantic.

"I never said that!" she yelled, dragging in gulps of air. "Stop assuming you know everything! Stop trying to decide for me!" Her fingers raked his tunic, grabbing at the fabric. "Let me out of here, please!" she begged breathlessly. "Please, it's too dark, I can't breathe!"

His anger dissolved in a flash, her shrill gasps chilling him, and he muttered a quick spell, blue light illuminating the small space of the closet.

Moira's eyes stared unseeingly into his, sweat gleaming on her face, tears tracking down her cheeks as she fought him.

"Too small can't breathe can't see please please please let me out," she chanted, her voice small and strained, and he set his hand in the center of her chest, his arm wrapping around her until she was flush against him.

"Moira, it's alright, I'm here," he whispered desperately, resting his brow against hers. "You're safe, you can breathe, I swear it." Her heart pounded under his palm, her sobs shaking him. "Listen to me, sweetness, please. Breathe with me, come on," he begged, forcing his lungs to fill in a soothing rhythm. "Nothing will harm you, nothing. You're safe." He shut his eyes, his own voice breaking with tears. Her terror was so real he could taste it, and he grasped a handful of her gown, the strain of her body as she tried to draw air in trembling against his arm and stomach. He'd done this to her. He'd plunged this horror into her heart when he'd only meant to keep her safe, and he cursed himself with every poisonous word he knew.

"Breathe with me, Moira," he begged. "Slowly, my love, you're safe, I promise." He latched on to her energy, guiding it with his own and wrapping it around them, teaching her silently to find her breath and calm.

Ages seemed to crawl by until she finally matched his pace, shuddering gulps of air that slowed to steady swells and retreats, Moira's desperate hold on his clothes relaxing until her palms flattened and rested between their bodies.

"Ralathor?" she whispered, sniffling, and he opened his eyes to see her blinking, her lips a wish away from his.

He brushed a kiss to her cheek, unable to help himself as he drew back, the salt of her tears cold on his beard. "I'm here," he swore. feeling the hummingbird flutter of her heart calming under his touch. "I'm so sorry, beloved," he choked, shaking his head. "I never meant to frighten you."

She frowned, still feeling the clinging grasp of her terror. "I know, I know. The darkness...it was just...it was too much. I haven't felt that way in ages." She shook her head. "Not even in the Caves. Never there," she amended.

"How?"

She smiled, another tear falling, but this one sweet from her smile. "Because you're there," she said softly.

He sighed, her words sending a frisson through him. "Moira, I'm so very sorry for frightening you." He reached up and thumbed away her tears, wiping them on his sleeve. "I didn't know." His eyes pleaded with her for forgiveness for hurting her.

She laughed softly, trembling with the after-effects of her fear, her body exhausted now that the panic was past. "You couldn't know, sweetheart," she chided gently, her teeth beginning to chatter. She pulled the star cloak off of his arm and wrapped it around herself like a blanket, her eyes closing in happiness as warmth seeped back in to her. "It's not like I bring it up in conversation. 'By the way, I was thinking of making honey cakes for Mabon. Would you care for any? Oh, and I'm terrified of small spaces.'" She laughed again at herself and opened her eyes to find him still staring at her sadly, mentally painting her into his memory, wrapped in his cloak.

He blinked suddenly, though, as what she called him finally drilled its way into his consciousness. "'Sweetheart'?" he echoed, stepping back from her, and her smile fell.

"Oh. Oh, I'm sorry," she murmured, starting to remove the cape again, already feeling bereft of its comfort. "I shouldn't have...I just thought...Well, you kissed me, you see, so I thought it was alright to say..." She pushed the garment at him again, babbling in embarrassment and she turned to go, letting the fabric fall to their feet, unheeded. She laughed again, the sound watery as she reached for the doorknob, only to jump back as blue magic crackled around the metal. She stumbled back into him, Ralathor catching her deftly.

"Why are you crying?" he asked gently, his heart breaking for her.

"Please let me go." She made no move to walk away, but he complied with her request nonetheless. She wrapped her arms around herself, still turned away from him as she struggled with her emotions. She felt like her throat would burst, it ached so much with trying to swallow down everything she was feeling.

"Moira, why are you crying?" he inquired once more, no less softly. His hands hung loose beside him, the cloak still on the floor.

She sniffled, wiping at her eyes with both hands as she faced him again, determined to smile and not worry him further. "Well, you don't want me," she finally admitted matter-of-factly. "And I was stupid to think you would." Her shoulders rose and fell with a jerky shrug, her voice cracking. "A great sorcerer like you would of course not want someone like me." She laughed again in self-deprecation. "I mean, you heard Madame Gerhart, I'm only good for finding lost earrings. And, alright, so I can heal people, but I passed out trying to cure Prince Angus, and I nearly burned off your hair one time, and I'm lousy at keeping some plants alive, and...and..." She lifted her hands helplessly and let them flop back against her sides in defeat. "I'm nowhere near your level, or my mother's, who had the obviously moronic idea to let me take her place on the council. I should have realized that Zargothrax fellow was up to no good, I nearly spat up my breakfast when he came in the room, but I just thought I was nervous. Mama would have stopped him right away!" She tilted her head at him, silently begging him to understand even as her mouth couldn't seem to stop rambling. "I honestly don't blame you for being embarrassed that Gerhart thought I was betrothed to you. The whole idea is laughable, really, don't you think? I really need to make sure Iona and Angus are alright," she babbled, trying to go to the door again. Why wouldn't the floor just crack open and swallow her already? Maybe she could get one of the undead unicorns to eat her and get her out of this situation. Something tugged at her thoughts though, wiggling its way through her sadness, and she turned on him, anger sparking in her eyes. "But I think it's really lousy of you to not want me just because I'm not as good as you, though! I'm kind, I'm a good cook, I clean up after myself, I'm clever...I take it back, Master Cranky-Pants, you should be honored to have me in your life!" She glared hotly at him, shaking a finger under his nose for good measure before she spun on her heel, only to be stopped by a roll of laughter behind her.

Ralathor watched as she sucked in an enraged breath and turned slowly to face him again, her small fists clenched in frustration, and he covered his mouth, trying to quell his mirth at the rapid shift of her temper.

"You _dare ...?"_ she began, more than ready to hex him into the next week.

He gently covered her hands with his, bringing them down to draw her close to him. "You are the most delightful creature I have ever met," he chuckled, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

She scoffed, trying to tug her hands from his, but he held fast, his thumbs rubbing soothingly over her wrists.

"Let me tell you a story," he requested, waiting until she nodded warily. He kept hold of one hand while his other lifted to encompass them both in a sweeping gesture, Moira gasping as they floated gently a couple of feet above the floor. She followed his example and shifted into a sitting position, Ralathor waiting until she was comfortable before he began. "Once upon a time, there was a very lonely, very angry man who hid himself away from the world. He had great power and great knowledge, but as far as friends went...he was quite without. Only a handful could be counted upon should he ever need another presence, but it wasn't until he stood in a stone circle, under a great canopy of stars, that a beautiful woman invaded his domain and turned everything on its head." He smiled, his eyes dark in the light he'd created for them, and Moira bit her lip at his confession. "He fought with himself daily, telling himself that he didn't want another friend, he didn't want someone else tromping into his home, poking into his life, poking at his emotions...But he finally had to admit that he needed someone to do just those things. He needed her. Do you know when he finally let that little screaming voice in his head claim victory and declare that the very lonely man was madly in love with the woman?"

She shook her head, sniffling a little as her nose prickled.

He squeezed her hands, lifting them to his mouth to brush a kiss over her knuckles. "When she had put up with him as a very grouchy, very sick owl, giving up her holiday to be stuck underground and nurse him back to health. She didn't seem to mind the dusty shelves or his threadbare clothes, she overlooked the hodgepodge way he wrote notes in the margins of his spells, and most importantly, she brought warmth to his home that none of his fireplaces or candles could ever match."

_"Oh."_ She fumbled to get a handkerchief out of her reticule and wiped her nose.

"But, as with any good story," Ralathor continued, sighing sadly, "there had to be something difficult. You see, our lonely hermit carried no noble title, and he had fallen in love, he discovered only recently, with a woman who was not only titled, but was also a princess."

"That's not my fault!" Moira burst out and he laughed.

"No, it's not. But it is a hindrance in this story." He kissed her hand once more. "You see, my darling Gooseberry Witch, it's not that I don't want you to walk with me for the rest of our lives, it's that I cannot have you because it is _I_ who will not be seen as worthy of you."

She shook her head, leaning forward earnestly. "Ralathor, I don't care that you're not some lord. It's never mattered to me! And I'll never sit on a throne, I have three older brothers who will have more claim than I since they were born first." She reached up to cup his jaw, her heart leaping at having the freedom to touch him as she pleased. "Mama respects you greatly, you must know this. My father trusts her judgement, and he'll see you as I do. Please don't turn away from this, from _us_, simply because I wear a crown in name only."

His smile was bittersweet, his mind whirling to hear her speak of him so dearly. "I can't subject you to a life under the mountains, sweetling," he protested quietly. "How would this work? You, shut away from the sun, from the court you've grown up in. No, I won't do that to you."

Moira groaned, feeling him slip away from her. "You are not imprisoning me, you blueberry fool! I choose to stay with you!"

He lowered the levitation spell, setting them both back on solid ground. "Moira, being with me...you'll never age. Do you understand this? Do you know how old I am?" he said, his voice low with a golden edge of power she'd never heard from him.

She shook her head mutely. She knew he was older than he looked, she could feel it in his magic, the way it carried a weight that felt dark and ancient.

"I have seen worlds die and burn. I have watched friends fade with the ages," he admitted, dropping her hands and stepping back. "I have walked through times yet to come, in kingdoms I hope will never come to pass. If you were to stand with me, such a fate would be yours even if you tire of it. You will watch Iona and Angus die. Your parents will be only a memory, dust on the path you walk, which will stretch into eternity. You say I would not imprison you, and yet that is what will happen, though there will be no dungeon to languish in. I will not allow this to be your destiny."

Moira set her jaw, her eyes narrowing. "I won't allow you to make that decision for me," she promised. "I love you, Ralathor. And I will find a way to make this work." She crouched and retrieved the cloak, her movements sure as she settled it around her shoulders, her eyes never leaving his as she clasped the brooch above her heart. "For now, though, we save our friends. Yes?"

He exhaled, his own determination ready in his eyes. "Yes."

He raised a hand and unlocked the door.


	10. The Questlords' Prisoner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Battle of Auchtermuchty comes to a close, the Questlords are not to be trusted, and Ralathor has doubts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness, the mighty FuchsWinter has gifted me with a scene! It sits at the end of this chapter and it is gloriously, gore-iously dramatic. Please be aware this is blood and torture/body horror mention. Thank you so much, Foxy! Hoots to you, meine freundin! (Did I say that correctly?)

Ralathor and Moira ran through the halls to the courtyard, where it seemed that Zargothrax had retreated his forces. They noted that his numbers had dwindled, both of those who used to be human and unicorn. For his crimes against the magical horses alone he would hang, should he be captured. For the atrocities of necromancy against humankind, his sentence would make him wish for death.

"Do you see them?" Moira asked, peering over the battle from the balcony, the valiant Knights of Crail having surrounded the dark wizard.

Hoots and Proletius stood together, the barbarian king having switched from his dagger to his battle axe.

Ralathor shook his head. "I imagine the prince and princess have been either sequestered somewhere in the castle for their safety, or they are on their way home," he surmised, jumping visibly when Iona and Angus skidded to a halt behind them.

"When have you ever known me to sit out from a fight?" Angus grinned, brandishing his sword.

"Where have you two been?" Iona asked, also armed with a sword, Moira was pleased to see.

The sorcerer and his lady exchanged a look, Ralathor looking away and Moira glaring at him.

"Talking," the hermit responded and the witch groaned in frustration.

"He won't marry me because he doesn't hold a noble title!" she exclaimed, smacking the low stone wall in front of her.

"This is hardly the time, Hollywell!" Ralathor flared back, incredulous at her declaration.

Iona stared at her in outraged shock. "Are you joking?" she gasped, a massive frown creasing her face.

"See?!" Ralathor waved a hand at the princess, relieved to have found an ally.

Iona wheeled on him. "You've been in love with her for this long and that's what's stopping you?" she demanded, and now it was his turn to have his mouth drop open.

"Dear one, I think we have more pressing matters!" Angus attempted to remind her, the shouts and sounds of fighting from the courtyard rising in intensity. He glanced from the fuming women to the carnage below.

"We'll discuss this more later!" the redhead swore, pointing at the flummoxed hermit and then at her husband. She lifted her blade in the air and charged towards the stairs. "For FIFE!!!" she roared, Angus grinning proudly and following her with his own yell.

Angus McFife wiped his arm across his forehead hours later, his shoulders slumped as he surveyed the bodies strewn around the courtyard, smoke rising from fires caused by misplaced spells, soft sobbing from the residents of the school as they identified the fallen and started to clear it all away. Anger and disgust burned in his heart, scouring away the despair from having to slaughter his own people, even though they were long since passed.

Zargothrax had gotten away. How, none of them could say, but the dark wizard had escaped, leaving his minions to fight in his name. Angus swore he would make the villain pay, but also hoped they had seen the last of him, at least for a while. Now that they knew what to look for, Dundee's people would keep closer watch on themselves and their livestock and prepare for the Bane's return, should he ever dare to make himself known again.

He looked over to where his wife was speaking with one of the High Mages of the school, discussing plans for rebuilding and whatever support they might need once the horror of the day truly sank in. He was so grateful to have her by his side. He couldn't help a besotted smile from appearing, the soot on his skin gathering in the creases. She was fierce and strong and yet possessed a gentleness and compassion that made him sit down in wonder ofttimes.

She must have felt him watching her because she turned, a blush staining her cheeks at his open admiration, and she smiled back with a small wave that he returned.

Angus' attention was distracted when Proletius walked over to him, soot from the fires and blood also marring his form. The Knight raised an eyebrow while he removed his gauntlets and tucked them into his belt. "While I'm impressed that you and Her Highness are still as smitten with each other even after she's had to live with you these past couple of years, do you really think a battlefield is an appropriate place for flirting, my lord?" he teased, unhooking his waterskin and taking a long drink.

The prince winked at him and reached for the waterskin, Proletius handing it over. "When you have found the right lady, my good Ser, you'll be as ridiculous as I, I am sure," he responded. After he wiped his mouth and handed the water back, he propped his hands on his hips to see where he was needed next. "I cannot believe we didn't see this coming," he muttered to his man-at-arms, who shook his head in disbelief also.

"The Questlords are doubling security around the entrance to the unicorns' home, but as wily as this Zapperflax lad seems to be, I don't know if their measures will be enough," Proletius said sourly. "I'll confer with Her Highness on how to best go about sharing our stores with Auchtermuchty, should they need supplementation, as well as any lodging that may be necessary. There will be families arriving within the week to collect their dead, I'm sure." His voice was raspy with repressed anger and sadness. As one sworn to protect the Crown and its lands, this kind of an attack infuriated and nauseated him with failure. It was a feeling he was not used to experiencing, and he was determined to never feel it again.

Angus nodded. "Let me see what awaits us next. I'll be close by, yeah?" He patted Proletius' shoulder then headed off to help, the Knight heading off in another direction.

It was nearing midnight when Prince Angus and his companions finally sat down to supper in a private solar in Dundee Castle. It had been a long day of searching and training, the toll of the previous hours wearing everyone's nerves thin, and all were grateful for the warm fire and soft chairs to rest in.

Weeks had passed since the attack on the Auchtermuchty School. Search parties had been sent to every corner of the kingdom, their search primarily fruitless, save for a few clues regarding Zargothrax's whereabouts. Tension in the kingdom was at a height not previously known, with people concerned for their families and their livestock. Every time a new death occurred, fear spiked in the populace. Would that body be next to join the Dark Wizard's horde?

The prince tore a piece of soft bread from the loaf and set it on her plate, Iona smiling tiredly at him in thanks. "If you like, you are welcome to stay home on the morrow, my love," he told her, handing a crock of fresh butter to her also. "I'll see to the search, you needn't worry."

She shook her head, passing a bowl of green beans to Hoots, who spooned out a healthy amount on both her plate and his. "No, but that's kind of you to offer. I'm not letting you out of my sight until that madman is run to ground."

Proletius rolled his eyes at Hoots' wide grin as they watched the exchange, though he was proud of his princess for staying on to assist. The pair would make an excellent king and queen when the time came. "I feel that he's going to lay low for a while longer while he renews his...resources," he winced, trying not to think to deeply on what that would entail as he reached forward to spear a piece of roast chicken. "I've been researching into his past, trying to find out more about him, and what possibly could have been his motive for committing such an atrocity."

"What's disturbing is that he made somewhat of a point with his reasons," Moira spoke up, shuddering. "As gruesome as it is, the idea of not causing more death to our own forces sounds good." She swallowed thickly, shaking her head to try to forget the things she'd seen. "But the perversions committed, it's absolutely unacceptable." She picked up a flagon of wine and poured some of the ruby liquid into Ralathor's goblet, the hermit seated beside her comfortably.

He'd been visiting the mighty citadel more often recently, consciously making an effort to be out amongst people. More importantly, to spend time with Moira, though they had tried to be subtle with public shows of affection. With the seriousness of the current climate, both of them felt that growing a romance in the open was inappropriate.

"How are you?" she asked him quietly, pleased to be able to spend whatever time she could with him, and honored that he was taking such strides. Their talk in the closet at the academy, and subsequent argument, was still a point of contention between them, but for now, they were on even, though tentative, ground with each other. In any case, she was enjoying getting to be more friendly with him.

Ralathor lifted a shoulder, smiling gently at her worry, warmed by the affection in her gaze. "I'm alright," he murmured. "Thank you." He touched her back, rubbing her shoulders in a reassuring manner. Touching others was still very new to him, and Moira was elated that he trusted her enough to even reach out that much.

The momentary respite from responsibility was interrupted when a knock sounded on the door and the guard stationed without poked his head in.

"Your Highnesses, there's a party arriving from Inverness. The QuestLords have a prisoner they want to deliver to us," he informed them, looking grave.

The food was forgotten as plans were made, Angus buckling his sword back on and striding to the door.

"Wait, please," Iona requested, hurrying after him, only to stop suddenly when her husband turned to her.

"You'll stay here, Iona," he said darkly, and the tempered anger in his green eyes made her hold her breath.

"But, Angus--"

_"No!_ No," he amended, lowering his voice after his near-shout that had her gasping in surprise. He could well imagine who the QuestLords had in their possession, and he was furious that he had been kept in the dark regarding his capture. Shame filled him for raising his voice to Iona just because his anger was spiking from his frustration. "No, please, stay here. I won't have you near him." He curled his fingers around her shoulder and she nodded silently. He kissed her quickly, his smile grim, before he and Proletius made for the door. "Hoots, with me, Ralathor, you also," Angus ordered, not looking over his shoulder. "Moira, you are to stay here as well. Get Iona away should anything go awry." His boots echoed on the flagstone corridor beyond as they left.

Ralathor cast one last glance to Moira, his brows lowered in worry. Whether for her or what he was about to embark on she wasn't sure.

"Be safe," she whispered and he nodded, and then he too was gone into the torchlit hall.

The QuestLords had dropped off their prisoner in the dungeon like a petulant child with a nanny before hieing back to their own citadel. Angus was nearly beside himself with anger at their insolence and trickery, but that was an issue he'd deal with at another time. For now, his small party was making their way into the bowels of the castle, a place he didn't visit very often and hated to when he did.

The first thing that hit Ralathor was the stench. Living underground for the most time, he was more than used to the smell of wet earth, even rot, to some degree, but the dungeons were filthy. This cell in particular.

The second thing was the smell of blood.

Next to him, Prince Angus shifted uncomfortably, perhaps not as prepared for his task as he'd claimed to be. Ralathor could feel the magic radiating off the entire room, carefully woven spells the QuestLords left to make sure their inmate would never be able to use his own gift again – for evil or otherwise.

"It ain't pretty, but that's what you get," the dungeon master said with a shrug before opening the cell door and letting them in, Hoots' lip curling at the state of the prison. Ralathor rested a hand on prince Angus' arm – Moira had advised him that would help - , feeling the young prince stiffen, eyes widening as they entered the cell.

The sorcerer Zargothrax, who'd so proudly presented his terrifying creations to the council, was a mere shadow of the maniacal man in robes and spectacles. He was fastened in the middle of the room, hanging from shackles around his wrists, ankles fixed to the floor with iron that had bitten into his skin until they were locked in place by crusted blood. If he had slept at all in the time of his incarceration, the position must have been uncomfortable first and then torturous.

He was clothed barely in a torn tunic, relics of the clothes he'd been captured in, revealing bruises and cuts all over his gaunt body. His bare back was nothing but mangled flesh, torn beyond recognition by the countless whippings he'd been sentenced to for his affronts against the majestic unicorns, and human lives. His robe and spectacles lay on the floor nearby as if to taunt him with his attempt at greatness.

The sorcerer lifted his head as he heard them approach. His dark hair hung in his face, grimy and clotted with blood from various sources, one side of his face swollen so badly it was unlikely he could see them. And yet, he smiled at them, blood running from the corner of his mouth.

"His Royal Highness, I see," he rasped. "You looked better with a beard. Are we there yet, or no? When are we?" His face lit up when he noticed the other two. "Ah! The Hollywood Hootsman, King of Cali-for-nia!" He dragged out the syllables in almost a sing-song voice before grinning in twisted joy at Proletius. "Oh, my old friend, the Grandmaster of my DeathKnights... oh wait, no. Not yet. And Master Ralathor, too! Or is it Commander? Either way, I remember the fire of what you called 'justice.' Are you the one to judge me?"

Angus let out a shaky breath, unable to answer. Ralathor gently pushed him back to stand with Proletius, taking it upon himself to lead the conversation. "Not quite," he replied, voice even. "More out of personal interest."

"What an honor," the sorcerer smirked, immediately after breaking into a cough that sounded painful even at a distance. He spat blood upon the ground, shivering with a no doubt mind-numbing cramp. His chains rattled, and even in the half-light, Ralathor could see fresh blood breaking from the wounds as his muscles strained.

The hermit did not change his expression or posture, keeping himself distanced from his former colleague.

"I heard you were once considered the brightest young sorcerer in the country. Why the sudden shift? You must have been well aware of the restrictions on necromancy."

"Ah, the moral question." Zargothrax giggled, his voice breaking. There were lighter streaks in the grime on his face, evidence of tears shed in the past, be they of mere pain or otherwise. "I told you. I told the council. Why lose more and more lives in war, if we could utilize the sacrifices we already made? It's a noble cause! Yet here I am, vilified."

"The unicorns are sacred," Angus burst out. "And... and playing with human lives, human _souls_ like that? You're insane!"

Zargothrax mustered him for a very long time. "Perhaps," he said at last. "I don't expect you to understand. A mere mortal wouldn't get the finer details of sorcery."

"I understand madness when I see it!", Angus spat. He turned on his heel, marching out of the room with the Hootsman and Proletius in tow. "I'll tell the council you're past saving. Master Ralathor, we should leave. Guards!"

Ralathor hesitated, then stepped closer to the captive. He lowered his voice, fixing the broken sorcerer with an intense gaze. "If you repent from your deeds, they will spare you. They'll listen to me if I vouch for you, I'm certain."

Out of an instinct quite atypical for him, he laid a hand on Zargothrax's shoulder. The dark sorcerer-to-be flinched from the touch, then slumped against it. His skin was icy and covered in sweat, even where the blood hadn't reached. Ralathor spoke a quick enchantment to at least lessen the strain on his muscles.

In all the centuries, all the universes, Ralathor realized, he'd never come close enough to the wizard to touch him. It was a strange thought.

"Really?" Another cramp ran through Zargothrax.

Ralathor barely avoided the blood that would have otherwise soiled his boots.

He wasn't sure why he did this, really. Maybe because he saw something in the sorcerer's eyes, sparking the hope of turning fate, the fate he'd seen over and over, just this one time. "If you swear to me your intentions were truly good."

Zargothrax stared at him for a very long time. "Truly?"

"Truly."

Zargothrax laughed, a sound that made Ralathor wince. There was no reason in his voice anymore, maybe there never had been. Whatever sanity had remained after the terrible experiment, the torture had shattered it. "And be shackled to you like a naughty child? I did this for Dundee! I should be honored!" His voice rose to a shrill falsetto, making Ralathor step back instinctively lest the physical contact was enough to make himself a target for the sorcerer's magic.

"I will make sure every last one of you burns for this treachery!", Zargothrax shrieked. "I should be worshiped for my sacrifice! How dare you offer me such a twisted solace!" He ripped at his shackles in fury, as if wanting to claw at Ralathor's face, lips twisted in a snarl that was more animal than human. "You and the prince sit on your high horses, but deep inside, you're just pathetic cowards! Laws must be broken if it's for the greater good! You should know that!"

A heavy hand fell down on Ralathor's shoulder. The hermit flinched, instinctively slipping out from under it. The dungeon master ushered him out, pointing him down the prince's' path, out of the dungeons. Ralathor wanted to protest, faint hope still flickering in his heart, or maybe just pity as he saw the whip in the guard's hand. But Angus grabbed his hand and dragged him down the corridor, away from the cell, muttering angrily about treachery and insolence and arrogant sorcerers.

"You'll pay for this!" The sorcerer's voice broke as his curses followed them down the corridor. "I did this for Dundee! Cowards! Traitors! You'll pay!"

They hadn't made it out of the dungeons before the curses turned into agonized screams. By the time the screams turned into pleads, the men had left the corridor behind, and by the time the pleading turned into mere whimpers, begging for the relief of death, they were out in the courtyard again, on their way to the council to report about the sorcerer's state.

Ralathor didn't speak, busy stuffing the memories away in neat boxes, to be called upon only if they were of use. He knew how to calm his guilty conscience, and ignore the feeling of failure.

It was, after all, not the first time.


	11. The Bane of Cowdenbeath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What has happened before shall happen again...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Battle scene, kids. Blood, gore, violence. Thou has been warned.

Moira and Iona met the men outside of the council chamber before it went into session. Angus smiled weakly, his stomach still churning from what he'd witnessed below, and he clasped Iona's hand gratefully as she walked beside him into the room. Ralathor hung back, debating on whether or not he would even be needed for the session, and Moira eyed him in concern.

"Walk with me?" she offered, understanding his hesitation. She reached her hand out, and Ralathor tucked it into the crook of his elbow to escort her down the hall.  
He closed his eyes in silent thanks as her warm hands curled around his arm, taking away some of the chill of the dungeon. The gentle balm of her power spread through him, relieving the icy weight in his heart as memories of worlds still to come tried to thread their way through his thoughts. He reached up to pull his hood over his hair, the familiar rasp of the cloth soothing as they walked.

When they were far enough away from any curious eyes, Moira rested her head against his shoulder and squeezed his bicep soothingly. He covered one ofher hands with his and just let himself sink into her presence. "Thank you," he said quietly, their footsteps hushed in the empty corridor.

"For what?" Moira turned to look up at him in puzzlement, her light green eyes studying his shadowed features.

He shook his head with a quiet laugh. She really didn't realize, after all this time, how she could affect him on so many levels. "For knowing when I need to be away from everything. For not judging me when I am." He lifted his shoulder. "For just doing what you do."

She stopped their walk, her hands slipping down to hold one of his firmly, the look on her face just as true. "Ralathor, I won't ever judge you," she promised him, squeezing his fingers for emphasis. "I appreciate you just being here in Dundee, even when I know you're not comfortable, completely. The fact that you've made an effort to be here, to be with me, is precious to me. I think you're wonderful just as you are."

His smile was endearingly bashful, her praise making him duck his head in embarrassment. "You continue to surprise and enchant me, Hollywell," he muttered, lifting her hands to kiss them and grinning when her smile wrinkled her nose at the gesture.

"Well, I am a witch, my blueberry wol," she teased, the deliberate mispronunciation making him groan and laugh.

"Ugh, please do not bring the Hootsman into the moment," he pleaded, tipping his head back as if begging the heavens for assistance as they continued their stroll.

Upstairs in the council room, the debate was turning heated as a conclusion was trying to be reached as to the fate of the Scourge of Auchtermuchty.

"He should be executed as swiftly as possible," Proletius insisted, thumping a fist on the great oaken table that filled the center of the room.

"Death is too good for him, but I agree," the Hootsman rumbled from beside him, his arms folded over his wolf-fur vest. He also had hoped to avoid the fate he'd seen too many times, the path that was beginning to spiral into the future already building with the current events.

"But what if we can gain information from him?" Iona countered, lifting a palm imploringly. "What if we could somehow make him an ally, turn him away from this darkness he's created?"

"Iona, you didn't hear his raving," Angus tried to explain. "He didn't know what day it was, he thought Proletius was his force's commander, that Hoots was the king of some fictional land named California." He stumbled over the strange word, still wondering where and what it was.

She frowned at him, feeling uncharacteristically petulant. "Aye, my love, I'm aware I didn't hear it, because I was not allowed to accompany you. Does my opinion not matter in here either?"

"Your Highness, none of us are saying that!" one of the councilors tried to appease her, surprised to see their monarchs arguing.

Another frowned down the table at the princess. "Perhaps the Princess Iona has already allied herself with this Zargothrax?" he suggested, smirking at the overwhelming ring of steel that filled the room as everyone drew their weapon in defense of the lady.

"I could slit your throat for that right here," Angus growled, on his feet already, the other man simply sitting in his chair, his hands folded placidly in front of him.

"You could," he shrugged, his smile turning sinister. He was enjoying the growing tension of the room, the feeling of unease that was beginning to permeate the air, though none of them had truly noticed it yet. "But you won't have time to." He winked just before he flashed out of existence, a wall-shattering boom shaking the castle at that moment.

The assemblage ran out to the courtyard, everyone staggering as another quake hit, the smell of fire and smoke beginning to waft through the castle.

"Zargothrax," Angus muttered through clenched teeth, leading the way towards the stairs that would take them down, only to be blown back by an explosion that sent him flying back into the Hootsman. The barbarian braced his foot behind him, catching the prince with a soft grunt and helping him stand.

Maniacal laughter echoed from the smoke billowing out of the tunnels, heralding another explosion, this one coming from the barbican, the metal gridwork melting under the force of magic. Screams from the soldiers reverberated around the structure, some in fear, others shouting orders, and Proletius ran to collect his own men for battle.

The laughter grew louder and the heroes turned to watch as the dark wizard emerged from his prison below, clad once more in his robes, his spectacles in place. His hands glowed with power, the blood encrusting his arms gleaming in the light of chaotic magic. A crowd of undead surrounded him, their own hands battered and shredded from pulling at rocks and climbing up to the castle from the cliffs below. Most surprising, though, was the horde of live people and goblins flowing in to the citadel and up from the dungeons, Zargothrax's army massive and organized in their hatred. Some moved on foot, others rode undead unicorns.

"How in the hells did he manage this? He had no way to communicate with anyone in the dungeon," Hoots wondered aloud, gripping his battle axe more tightly. Angus was only slightly dazed from the blast, a few cuts from flying masonry marring his face and armor, but he was unharmed.

"Let's not give him a chance to explain," the prince replied, nodding in satisfaction when he saw Moira and Ralathor hurrying into the courtyard.

The group waded into the fight, spells flying faster than blades could sweep through the crowd from both sides. Zargothrax pulled himself up onto a unicorn, one hand gripping the rotting mane as he plunged into the battle, spearing victims on the once-gleaming horn and firing off bolts of power. Catching a glimpse of a small figure in pale blue, a bright sword in her hands, he smiled and worked his way over to her.

"Princess Iona!" he called, waving at her as blithely as if they were attending a garden party. "I heard you wanted to spare my life! For that, you have my thanks!"

"I reserve my right to change my mind!" she retorted, kicking away one of the goblins and gasping when another landed a punch to her face, nearly knocking her over.

"Iona!" Moira yelled, rushing to her and hastily examing the blow. The skin was already forming a bruise, a faint cut appearing on the swell. The sorceress frowned and touched her friend's cheek, soft lavender light sweeping over the injury and healing it quickly.

"Ah! I'd wondered if that was you!" Zargothrax crowed, wheeling back around, the unicorn rearing up to scare away some of the soldiers. "The Lady of Cowdenbeath herself! Your prince should not have let you stray from the caverns," he cackled. "You are a hard one to find, my lady! As far as I can tell, there has only been one of you, which is such a puzzle, I must admit! Our little wild card, I might say?"

Moira stared at him in confusion. "What on earth are you babbling about, cur?" she replied loudly, shoving back some of the undead peasants attempting to draw close to her. The stench of death was nearly overwhelming and the milky glaze of their eyes sent shivers down her back.

The wizard looked at her in mirthful suprise then shook a finger teasingly at Ralathor. "Commander, shame on you!" he chided, surprising the hermit with a quick zap of energy that sent a stinging bolt into his shoulder. "I think you've got enough secrets tucked under that cowl of yours, don't you? Ah, but you are an Only as well, aren't you? I, unfortunately, do not have such an honor...or is it a hindrance? Although, I do plan on changing that at some point!"

Ralathor growled and swept out a volley of runes at the rogue mage, the symbols twisting into a sticky mass that struck Zargothrax's torso and burning into his skin through his robes. Zargothrax shrieked with the pain as it seeped into his unhealed wounds, burning worse than if boiling salt water had been poured over him.

"Insolent wretch! Decrepit liar!" Zargothrax ranted, a magic bolt going wild and striking one of the towers, causing stone and mortar to fly out over the crowd.

Ralathor quickly threw out a protective spell that shoved the debris across the space to crash harmlessly against a far wall. "Leave this place!" he yelled, already aware of how damaged the castle was becoming. This had to end, he just wasn't sure how it would, since so much had changed in this world.

"Are you offering me solace once more, Your Highness?" Zargothrax sneered, laughing when Ralathor glared even more hotly at him. "I shall not bargain! Not for this, and not with the likes of you! Every soul in Fife knows of that game!" he swore. "Dundee will kneel before me or burn!" He cast another spell at a wall, cheering as a hole tore through it, screams from beyond beautiful to his ear.

"Stop this!" Angus raged, charging towards the unicorn and its rider in blind fury, only to be hit on the back of the head by a goblin rushing past. His eyes flew open wide from shock and hurt, his body spinning dizzily away, his sword nearly falling from numb fingers.

"Your Highness!" Moira gasped, trying to shove through the crowd to reach his side.

Zargothrax clicked his tongue disapprovingly as he watched her struggle, Iona across the courtyard and also attempting to help her husband. "Oh no, little witch, we can't have that!" he pouted, grinning maniacally the next instant and flinging a hard sphere of power at the sorceress, the bite of it making even its wielder flinch.

Moira looked up too late, her eyes glowing with the crackle of magic rocketing towards her. Her scream barely had time to break free before Ralathor slammed bodily into her, grunting in agony as the spell seared into his veins.

They both fell to the bloodstained flagstones, Ralathor rolling with her in his arms as they landed to take the brunt of the ground's impact. He tucked her protectively underneath him, his cloak shielding them. He buried his face in her neck, seeking safety, and sweat soaked his tunic as he shuddered in pain, his hands gripping her shoulder and waist.

"Ralathor?" she whimpered, working her hands free to cup his face and sending a small tendril of her magic out to assess him. She gasped, recoiling at the slimy burn of the spell that coursed sluggishly through him. She gritted her teeth when he didn't respond and swallowed back frightened tears. "My love?" She stroked his cheek, sighing in relief when his eyes cracked open.

"Hurts," he rasped, and she bit her lip, nodding. His eyes slid closed once more when she pulled his head down and pressed a kiss to his forehead, her sigh breathing through his mind and sending a cool rush through him. It moved like frost on a windowpane, banking the fiery pain until he could think again, move again. He relaxed against her for a moment before he moved off of her and helped her to her feet, his arm wrapping over her shoulders for stability as they assessed the battle.

At first glance, it seemed as if Zargothrax's forces were losing, their numbers lessened significantly, but the fires were spreading through the citadel, and Angus and his comrades were hard pressed to continue the fight while trying to evacuate the residents.

"I don't see Iona," Moira fretted, her gaze flitting from where Hoots was facing off against a crowd of goblins, his battle axe gruesome from the blood on its blade, to where Angus crossed swords with his former council member. Overhead, Proletius swooped by on his eagle, arrows raining down in calculated strikes against the evil horde.

"Oh gods," Ralathor breathed, suddenly spotting the princess as she was yanked away from a group of servants that she was trying to help escape, Zargothrax's emaciated hand wrapped around her coppery hair.

She screamed, trying to fight him bare-fisted, her blade flicked away by an apathetic wave of his fingers, powered by one of his spells. He tossed her up onto his steed and climbed up after her, Iona's shouts of terror reaching Angus over the fray while the wizard galloped towards the drawbridge, the barbican gate a useless web of iron.

Veins stood out in the prince's neck as he screamed her name, running towards them and shoving away his foes as if they were weightless.

Ralathor clenched his eyes shut as he pulled himself and Moira through space, trying to reach the retreating sorcerer and his prisoner in time, only to land himself and the lady in a painful sprawl on the clearing beyond the moat as Zargothrax thundered by.

Moira struggled to stand, her senses spinning wildly from the enchantment that had gone horribly wrong. Ralathor still lay on the ground, gasping for breath as he dry heaved with nausea and pain. The witch gave up her efforts and collapsed back beside him to rest her head on his arm.

"What happened?" she croaked, coughing as smoke drifted towards them, and she turned her head to watch as the mighty citadel burned. Tears poured down her cheeks in hot stripes, a sob filling her throat to see her home dying.

Ralathor's eyes opened and closed slowly, his whole body feeling as if he were moving through molasses on a ship at sea. "Home," he managed drunkenly. "I need to go home." He traced a finger in the dirt, drawing a sigil there and then slapping his palm over it to activate it. He moaned lowly as he felt himself and Moira sinking in to the earth for a brief moment before they both disappeared, his waning power taking them to the dark caves beneath Cowdenbeath.


	12. Down In the Underground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zargothrax does, and has done, some bad, bad things...and they're not going to get better for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zargothrax discusses some of how he was tortured, complete with weapon description

Instead of the amusing sensation of being dropped onto the bed as with previous jaunts through the fabric of time and space, being flung onto a rug-covered stone floor was the experience now.

Moira took a second to come back to herself, focusing on a cluster of crystals in the ceiling for a starting point before she rolled onto her knees.

Ralathor was collapsed beside her, unmoving, somehow looking smaller than she would have thought possible, as if he were shrinking into himself. She gently turned him over and sat back on her heels with a faint cry at the pain on his face, his eyes clenched shut as if even the soft glow of the candles was too much for him. His hands were trembling, fingers set into claws and stiff against his chest with his agony. 

Worried that even her touch might cause him further suffering, she kept her palms above his person and tried to tuck away her own worries so she could focus on healing him. Her mouth dropped open on a silent, gagging scream, tears spilling over as she got a taste of what horrible enchantment Zargothrax had spun. Ralathor's magic was distorted, his inner power being slowly devoured by the spell, ragged teeth of hunger scraping at the vivid blue cords of his energy like an aging lion devouring its prey. It wasn't a quick process, she realized, and with the great expanse of Ralathor's power, this could drag on into eternity.

She wasn't sure what she could do to help him. Even with her healing it would only be a matter of time before the scraping began anew. But seeing him in this state wasn't something she could let alone. She had to try whatever she could, she determined, smoothing her energy over the shreds of his magic and trying to ease the damage.

She was sweating and trembling from exertion by the time she managed to heal him enough to see his body relax and his breathing even out from the shallow inhaling he had been doing. 

Moira slumped back, heaving a deep sigh as she braced her arm behind her and propped her elbow on her bent knee. She rested her head on her fist, watching the hermit sleep. She hated to move him, but sleeping on the floor, even with a fire in the hearth warming the room, was not going to be kind to his back after a few hours.

The princess pushed herself to her feet, rolling her neck to release some of the tension there, and plucked at the threads of magic in the air, willing the strands to gently weave around her beloved and lift him. She guided him through the passageways of the cave to his bedchamber, everything in its familiar place from when she last visited.

She settled him on the bed and set about removing his boots and unclasping his cloak, leaving the brooch on the bedside table and covering him with a thick blanket. She dropped down into an armchair nearby, only to jump up again when something poked her side.

Moira glared down as she rubbed the sore spot, then managed a tired laugh to see one of her balls of yarn tucked into a corner of the chair, a knitting needle the culprit of her injury. She'd started knitting a new cowl for Ralathor several months prior, hoping to be able to finish it by the new year, Samhain, which was only a couple of weeks away. It was close to being finished, she was relieved to see, but she'd have to try to hurry to finish it by the celebration.

A groan from the bed, Ralathor muttering in his sleep, made her smile fade. What if he didn't make it to the new year? she worried, then dashed that fear to the back of her mind hastily. Thinking like that wouldn't help him, or her, get through this. She had to believe that he would overcome this spell.

He was warm and the smoke he could smell was scented with cinnamon and amber overlaying an undertone of damp earth and old leather. The feel of the pillows under his head was familiar, too, and he knew he was home. He tried to open his eyes but failed, the effort too much for that moment, but a quiet voice from beside him made his head turn toward the source. A cool, soft hand stroked his brow and threaded through his hair, gentle words he couldn't make out swirling like delicate snowflakes and guiding him back to sleep. A kiss brushed his forehead, the scent of lavender and wet roses enough to tell him someone he loved was close by, but he couldn't remember their face.

Why was she here? She shouldn't be here. _Couldn't_ be here. He tried to fight his exhaustion but her power was too great and he was too weak. Safety and healing tempted him and he let the ribbons of her magic wrap around his mind and drift him back under into dreams.

Iona struggled against Zargothrax's grasp, the wizard surprisingly strong for one who had been tortured and starved, as he pulled her with him through his castle. His hand was wrapped around her upper arm, holding it at an angle that made it hard for her to land a punch, but she tried to kick him as often as possible.

The ride to the dark fortress had not been without troubles, the princess managing to jump off of the unicorn and roll into the brush only to be hauled back by some of the goblins. 

Zargothrax eyed her disdainfully from atop his steed, Iona glaring up at him with disgust. "Your Highness, I'm willing to transport you gently to my home, but if you continue with this behavior, it won't go so easily for you," he warned her.

She sneered, trying still to get loose from the creatures holding her arms. "Why don't you just kill me?" she spat. "It would save you a lot of trouble to not have to drag me across the countryside."

He sighed, debating on the value of her suggestion, his head ticking from side to side with his thoughts. He stopped, his mouth twisting in disappointment. "No, that doesn't really go along with my plans," he said at last, shaking his head at her as if she had asked him for a sweet before supper. "Oh well. My apologies, Your Highness, no dying for you right now." He grinned suddenly, the sight even more chilling with the blood encrusted by his mouth and in his beard. "But who knows what the coming days might bring!" He giggled and tapped his heels into the unicorn's flanks, urging the party once more down the road.

Now he was walking her down to the dungeons with a few of his goblin cronies flanking them, the twisted irony of his actions not lost on Iona. If her own castle could boast such a horrible place, she was terrified of what might await her in the villain's lair. 

"You don't get to come down to places like this very often, do you, princess?" the council member who'd betrayed them smiled, his hands held behind his back casually as they descended the stairs.

"Why did you do it?" she asked quietly, her heart aching at his subterfuge.

Galius Burke had sat on the council of Fife since before she had been born. His family had been a fixture in the kingdom for generations. To see him with such malice and venom in his gaze made her chest ache, but she wasn't about to shed tears for him. She wondered how Angus was, if he was safe. He had to have survived the battle, she told herself. There was no way he would have allowed himself to die like that. And her other friends, her home...she could still see the blackened silhouette of the citadel's proud spires against the orange blaze of the fire engulfing it. She tucked the memory away, determined to stay strong, to find a way out of this nightmare and back to her beloved.

"Because the kingdom of Dundee is going to be ruled by an ignorant child," he replied, lifting a negligent shoulder. "My family hasn't worked for so long to see it fall under Angus' care. Letting in that flea-bitten barbarian from Unst, allying himself with Auchtermuchty...Even the QuestLords are debating on whether they still want to throw in their lot with the House of Fife."

"But the kingdom is thriving!" Iona argued, trying not to feel how cold it was getting the further under the castle they went.

"The peasants are thriving," Burke hissed in loathing. "They think they can rise above their stations, step into our roles, take our wealth! I won't have it!"

The princess could only stare at him, unable to understand his reasoning.

"Here we are, lovely Iona!" Zargothrax announced, opening a cell door and pulling her in. 

Ice dripped in glittering spikes in the corners of the room, the walls glassy with the purity of the cold sheeting over it. A pair of manacles hung from the ceiling, and Zargothrax snapped his fingers at one of the goblins to unlock the cuffs.

"I'm sure you've been worried about what torture I had planned for you," he said conversationally, pushing her hard against the wall as the goblins held her in place while he lifted her arm to fit it in the restraints. "I mean, I had the pleasure of the QuestLords' cat tasting my back for days, not to speak of the fact that no water was offered for at least two nights. Only the taste of my blood and sweat to try to quench me when they stopped striking me." He broke off, whistling softly as he locked her other wrist above her head.

"Cat?" she whispered, fear stealing her voice at the visions he created with his words.

"The cat o'nine tails, m'dear!" he responded blithely. "An ingenious little device of strips of thin leather to whip your prisoners. But you see, the Lords are never ones not to take things to their fullest extent, so they tied knots in the strips and threaded bits of glass and metal on them as well, making sure their prisoners got the full effect of their pain."

Iona blinked back tears, staring at her multiple reflections in his glasses as he smiled down at her.

"But I won't do such things to you," he murmured, tracing her soft cheek with his thumb, his head tilting as he regarded her tenderly. "No, Your Highness, I'm going to keep you, beautiful forever and, of course, untouchable as all princesses should be." He stepped back, gesturing grandly at the ice cavern around them.  
"Liquid ice!" he explained. "It will encase you, keeping you from ever aging, keeping you always lovely. There is no escape, my dear. But fear not! You shall sleep forever, with dreams and silence, always here. You'll never be in danger again!" He cupped her face, studying her like a piece of art before he stepped away and to the door, Burke and the goblins following. "I'll peek in on you later, princess!" he promised, waving without turning as he let the door swing shut behind him with a loud bang.

Iona looked up at the liquid dripping down, her hair already becoming wet, and she finally let out a sob as she struggled against her chains, her fear kicking into desperation. She could feel her gown stiffening as it grew damp, her skin even feeling slightly paralyzed from the droplets.

Angus had to come, he had to find her. And he would, she told herself, but the assurances didn't do any good as her tears continued to fall, unable to melt the ice beginning to encase her.

Ralathor turned his head slowly, his eyelids heavy from his slumber, and he frowned at the woman in the chair by his bed. She was dressed in a pale purple, sleeveless kirtle of simple fabric, the white sleeves of her chemise rolled up to expose her milky forearms. A heavy lapis lazuli ring graced one hand that worked busily with its partner, knitting a circle of deep blue yarn. A matching pendant of the same gem sat in the hollow of her throat, exposed by the casual twist of her raven-dark hair on top of her head. Her bare foot swung idly beneath the hem of her skirt, her other leg tucked comfortably underneath her as she worked. She was very beautiful, almost unearthly, and her smile when she noticed he was awake was full of joy.

"Hello," she greeted, rising from her seat, the knitting still in one hand as she crossed the short distance to where he lay.

He tried to push himself away from her as she lifted a hand to touch him, but found that he was too weak to move. "What have you done to me?" he grated, coughing. He felt as if water hadn't touched his lips in days.

She retreated slightly, fingers curling back as she frowned in sad confusion. "Done to you? Ralathor, I've done nothing but watch over you."

"How do you know my name?" he demanded, his teeth clenching as he shuddered and forced himself upright.

She blinked rapidly, her breath lodging in her chest in fear. "Ralathor, it's me. Moira. Your Gooseberry Witch?"

"So you admit you have ensorcelled me!" he accused loudly, dragging himself off of the bed.

"I would never--here, stop that! You'll hurt yourself!" she ordered, hurrying around the bed to try to help him and dropping her knitting onto the coverlet.

He pushed her hands away harshly, Moira falling back with a gasp. "Don't touch me, witch! How came you into my home? No one knows I'm here." His eyes narrowed as he looked down at the weaving on his bed, his eyes glittering with fever as he looked back at her. "Did she send you?" he hissed, stalking towards her and she began to back away.

"What?" she stammered, trying to comprehend what was going on, Her eyes widened when his hands began to glow slightly.

"Your knitting. It's almost Samhain," he explained slowly as if she were stupid. "Your Queen will arrive if it's not finished in time..."

"It's a gift for you, you dusty hedgehog!" she retorted, hoping that maybe her old insults would break through to him."I wanted to have it done by the new year!"

"But you won't finish it, wench! You'll use it to bring her here to find me!" He brought his hands to bear, prepared to fire, but a burning ache spread quickly through him, the pain of it shoving him to the floor with a yell.

Moira knelt quickly beside him only to fall back gracelessly as he tried to push a rune at her. The spell dissolved in mid-air, his intention lost with the blizzard of pain encompassing his thoughts.

The princess wept as she crept over to him, Ralathor crumpled on the rug with shivers wracking him. "What's going on?" she whimpered, touching his shoulder tentatively and he snuffled as he gripped a handful of her dress, his face pressing into her lap.

"Moira, please. Please get out," he begged, turning his gaze up to her face. His eyes were clear, though sweat shone on his skin once more. "It's eating me, eating my magic. You're not safe!" He growled again, pushing her roughly away with his hands and his power, sending her tumbling over the carpets. "Get out!" he roared. "You are trespassing, you charlatan!" 

Moira lay on the floor, crying as he rose over her, legs spread menacingly as he glared down at her. "Ralathor, please!" she begged, trembling as she guided herself to kneel, her hands rising in defense as his power surged in a halo of blue around him.

She screamed as he shook, pain warring within him as he aimed his fingers at her, arms glowing with magic.

Another yell filled the chamber and suddenly the Hootsman rushed in, tackling the delirious sorcerer to the ground.

"Get out, Moira!" Hoots ordered, the thunder of his voice as terrifying as Ralathor's threat.

"I won't leave him!" she screamed. She bit back a sob as she yanked at the magic of the land forcefully, her own lavender energy twisting around the cords and whipping around Ralathor. His shriek was almost inhuman as he fought her, suddenly slumping in the Hootsman's arms when he was overwhelmed by the pain from within and the power without.

The barbarian collapsed with the dead weight in his arms, breathing heavily as he stared at his friend, the hermit unconscious, quiet. Hoots looked over at Moira, who bent over and sobbed into the carpet, horrified by what she'd done.


	13. And I Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our hermit is not all he seems, and his memories surface as Moira tries to heal him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay! It's been a busy week between work and the beginning of Christmas Pageant work. No warnings for this chapter (shocking, I know!). I hope you enjoy it and I hope all is well with you!

The Hootsman lifted Ralathor and gently put him back to bed, grimacing at the state of his old friend while he pulled the blankets back over him.

"I'm glad I got here when I did," he muttered, settling his hands on his hips and looking over at Moira as she sat up, still hiccuping slightly from her crying.

"I am, too," she admitted ruefully, pulling a kerchief out of her apron's pocket and wiping her face. She sighed, tucking her legs under her and just resting on the floor for a few moments. "Hoots, you've known him the longest. Do you know what's happening?" she asked, more tired than she could ever remember. "He kept talking about a Queen arriving before Samhain, and he didn't seem to know who I was. The only Queen I know of that travels on the new year specifically, and is attracted to unfinished knitting is Nicnevenn, the Queen of the Faeries of Fife, the Unseelie Court, and the Wild Hunt. I've only ever heard of her legends, though my grandmother used to tell me tales of the Queen and her geese flying over her house on Samhain and taking the offerings she would leave out." She rubbed her eyes with both hands then laced her fingers in her lap, looking up at him for answers as he sat on the foot of the bed.

His kind blue eyes regarded her soberly, the corners of his mouth turned down as he debated with himself. "Tell me more about his illness," he requested, his voice more quiet than she'd ever heard.

She tilted her head, shrugging. "Well, when we were in Dundee...Oh, Hoots,_ Dundee!" _She clapped a hand over her mouth, rising up on her knees. "Hoots, Iona! What happened? Is Angus alright? Proletius? How does the citadel fare?"

He patted the air, trying to calm her barrage of questions. "Angus and Proletius are fine. The castle..." He sighed, shaking his head, his mane of hair brushing against his furred vest. "The castle will have to be rebuilt. The architects are already at work, drawing up grand plans and assessing the structural strength. As for Iona, we know not," he finished gravely.

"But it's been three days since the attack!" Moira cried, sinking back to sit. "No word from that wretched wizard? Surely he'd be gloating over what he's done!"

"Angus left this morning on a quest for magic artifacts to try to rescue Iona and defeat Zargothrax. He had a dream the other night that told him he first needed to travel north to obtain some kind of magic hammer."

Moira stood up, looking thoughtful. "That sounds familiar...Hold on." She left the room and went to the library, hastily scanning the titles on the spines and grabbing the one she sought. She hurried back to the bedroom, flipping through the chapters and then triumphantly turning it around to show to the Hootsman.

He read the passage, lips moving silently, and eyes widening as he went. He looked up at her, puzzled. "Alright, so it's a legend about Nicnevenn."

"Who uses a magic hammer to build mountains! And Angus needs a magic hammer!" She closed the book with a snap. "What if it's the same one?"

Hoots shook his head. "Little bird, you do not want to get yourself tangled up with the Queen of Winter or her weaponry. I highly doubt the artifact our prince seeks is the same one she wields." He pushed off of the bed, pacing nervously and setting his chain mail shirt to chiming softly with his movements.

Moira wrapped her arms around the book as she held it to her chest and frowned at him. "Hoots, what's wrong? If she can help, why not try to ask her? I know, the Unseelie Court isn't really one for assisting mortals, but I wouldn't think they'd want a horde of undead things roaming across their land."

He headed straight for her, his scowl fierce as he took the book from her and set it aside, his large hands curling around her shoulders. "Moira, I tell you truly, you are not to deal with her or the Hunt. Is that clear?"

"But-but why?" she spluttered, confused as to why her suggestion had him so disturbed.

His shoulders slumped and he sighed, a look of pity puckering his brows. "Because her son is in love with you."

Moira snorted then burst out laughing at the absurdity of his statement, cupping her hands quickly over her mouth to stifle the noise lest she wake Ralathor. Her laughs quieted to a few soft giggles as she eyed the man before her, his somber expression sobering her after a time. "Hoots, be serious. I'm fairly certain I would know if I had met a prince of the Unseelie Court." She folded her arms resolutely.

"As certain as you were that the Blueberry Wol wasn't in love with you?" he countered, his hands still on her shoulders.

She scoffed, rolling her eyes. "In my defense, I was intimidated by him," she explained then grimaced. "Hoots, honestly, this isn't funny. I've never even met a fae, much less somehow gotten one to fall in love with me!" She started to laugh again.

The Hootsman sighed a long-suffering sigh and moved to turn her to face the bed where the hermit dreamed. "Are you absolutely certain you've never met Nicnevenn's son?" he asked quietly. "He prefers to be underground or out at night, he can shapeshift, he can move through time and reality...Moira, please, what happened to him? What is this that ails him?"

Her skin had drained of color as she stared at the sleeping man. "It's a spell that eats magic. It's draining him. I keep trying to fix the tears in his magic, but it just keeps getting worse." She turned and looked up at her friend, tears swimming in her pale green eyes. "But if he's fae...if he's a magical creature and it eats magic..." She shook her head in fear. "No wonder every time he tries to cast he collapses! It just devours that burst of power and destroys him that much more!" She covered her eyes with shaky fingers. "I thought I could help him, reverse the spell...this is beyond me, I think."

"I can fix it."

The croaking voice from the bed made them look at Ralathor swiftly. The sorcerer was shakily pushing himself up to sit, his already thin face becoming gaunt from the diabolical spell. He regarded the pair with distrusting gray eyes, his lip curling in a sneer of disgust as he looked at Moira.

"How are you still here, nymph?" he rasped. "Still waiting on your Queen's arrival? What have you done with the Lady Moira?"

Hoots looked down at her in concern, but Moira wiped her eyes and squared her shoulders, a hard light coming into her gaze. "Her Majesty sent me to watch over you, Your Highness. She has been concerned about you as of late."

He snorted, looking away and shifting to get out of bed. "My mother knows better than to send one of her little minions to me. I have no need of her help or her concern. I haven't for centuries," he muttered, groaning as he sat on the edge and rested for a few breaths.

The witch caught her breath at the statement. She had theorized for years as to how old he really was, but to actually hear a number...

"Trickiness goes hand in hand with fae, my lord. Mayhaps Her Majesty just felt like doing something different?" she suggested, wanting to sit beside him and comfort him, but she held herself back. This situation seemed too delicate for any misstep she might inadvertently take.

Ralathor looked darkly up at her through the damp strings of his hair, his shoulders hunched from his arms braced on either side of himself. "She can play her games elsewhere," he growled. "I ask again, what have you done with my Lady Moira? Answer quick lest you feel my wrath. Although, should your answer displease me, you may receive it anyway."

"The Lady Moira is safe, Your Highness," she replied archly, not liking his tone of voice, even though she knew he wasn't himself at the moment. Nonetheless, threatening a lady wasn't something she'd ever expected of him. "I'll thank you not to speak to me thusly. I've heard tell of your honorability, my lord. Threatening a woman should be beneath you."

He set his teeth, his fingers digging dangerously into the mattress as he held himself back from attempting any magic, the repurcussions too great. "Where she is concerned, nothing is beneath me to ensure her safety, nymph."

The Hootsman had to cover his grin at that and look away, and even Moira had to bite her lips to keep from smiling in delight at his declaration.

Ralathor looked down, her words unsettling him. "Although, you are correct. Such things are not my normal behavior. And my lady would be displeased with me for behaving that way." He looked up at her, chastised. "I offer my apologies."

She smiled, inclining her head. "Accepted, Your Highness." She held out her hand to help him stand. "Shall we see what we can do to save your life?" she suggested.

He eyed her hand then looked up at her, wary. "Unseelie do not offer help. Why are you offering?"

Moira shrugged, though inside she was starting to see why he had kept to himself for so long if there was such distrust among his people. "Because you are my prince," she said simply. "Besides, dying is something I would think you'd want to avoid, no? Especially like this." She was proud of herself for not choking over the word 'dying' in relation to him, and she offered a light smile as if she hadn't a care in the world.

He frowned at her, though with considerably less heat than a few moments ago, and accepted her help up. He led the way to the workroom, the Hootsman going over to the fireplace to start the kettle for some tea, knowing it would be a long night ahead of them.

Several hours later Ralathor was slumped in an armchair, watching the fairy in Moira’s clothes stirring a brew over the hearth. Hoots was drowsing in another chair, a pillow cuddled to his chest and his head resting on one of the chair’s winged sides.

“You’re quite adept at this,” the hermit remarked, his voice weak. Even without having used any of his magic, he could feel the slow drain of his power with each tick of the clock. “My lady would probably enjoy meeting you and discussing spell work. She’s extremely adept at what she can do, though it always pains me to remember how she discounted her talents.” He closed his eyes and rested his head further back into the cushioned seat behind him. “She shocked me when she admitted what a pedestal she held me on, feeling me so far above herself that she thought herself unworthy of me.” He chuckled darkly, opening his eyes to keep watching the handmaiden at her work. “Ridiculous notion. Her powers are merely different from mine, but I suspect no less impressive, though she’s never tapped into them that deeply.”

The dark faerie looked over at him, her eyes oddly bright. Perhaps the smoke from the fire was bothering her, or the light of the fire itself? “Perhaps because she had never been complimented the way you speak of her? I have heard tell of this lady of yours. They say she comes from a line of very powerful sorceresses.”

He sat up as quickly as he dared, concern creasing his face. “Who speaks of her?” he demanded. “Does someone in my mother’s court know of her? Does my mother have some plan set into motion for her? I will not allow my lady to be ensnared in that woman’s web or the nefarious plans of her court. Moira is a creature of sunlight and soft flowers. The dark of the Unseelie is no land for her,” he swore, settling back with a groan.

“I have only heard of her when I walked the world on my own, my lord,” she tried to calm him, the pasty cast of his face only heightening her worry. “The people of Fife hold her in high regard.” She winced inwardly at her possible deception. It wasn’t as if she listened at keyholes to hear what people’s opinions of her were. "You seem quite protective of her, my lord. If the lady is as powerful as you say, is she not capable of seeing to her own safety?" She was determined to keep him talking, the irrational fear that if he fell asleep he may not wake up again sitting coldly in her heart.

Ralathor snorted softly and eyed her in amusement. "You obviously have not met her, madame," he responded dryly. "She is very capable of protecting herself. She and her boon companion, the Princess Iona, have both had extensive training with blades and archery. Truly, the two women are veritable demons on a battlefield. A tourney was held a few months ago, and they took it upon themselves to compete, though in disguises." He laughed quietly only to have it turn into a cough that had him doubling over.

Moira's hand trembled around the spoon, her other gripping her apron until her knuckles ached. This subterfuge was torture, but she dare not approach him. "Disguises, my lord?" she managed, swallowing thickly to try to keep her voice level.

He cleared his throat a couple of times and sank back with a shiver. He reached for the cup of tea Hoots had left beside him, drinking the brew gratefully. It tasted almost like the tea Moira usually made for him, and he set it aside quickly at the thought. "Indeed. Light armour for the both of them for the swordplay, then leather tunics with deep hoods and ill-fitting woolen hose for the archery competition. Princess Iona actually won her round with the sword, going up against one of her husband's men-at-arms. Lady Moira destroyed her competitors in archery, her distance-shooting superb," he laughed quietly, remembering the look of shock on every face on the field. "It was truly a sight to behold, especially when the Princess of Fife marched over to her prince, tipped back the visor of her helmet, and requested he allow her to wear his colors in tribute. I thought Angus would topple over in a swoon from his seat."

Moira smiled also at the memory, remembering the massive cheers that went up when their identities were revealed. Although, she did receive quite a lecture from her hermit at putting herself in potential danger afterwards.

Ralathor shook his head, quieting. "No, my lady does quite well on her own. She has always had such a fire in her, which is in intriguing opposition to the gentleness of her spirit. She was kind to me from the start," he mused, propping his jaw on his fist. "Most certainly, she would tease me, and I her, but never with any cruelty behind her words. Even when we pushed each other away sniping and snapping at each other, frightened by our emotions and insecurities, I knew she didn't mean what she said. My Gooseberry Witch," he chuckled, closing his eyes and resting his head against the chair.

"I wonder, sometimes, why she chose me. There have been many men to cross her path, admirers and potential suitors. She told me, once, of some lord who was attemtping to court her," he said sourly, opening his eyes to look again at the fairy. "His attentions grew too invasive for her taste, the fool following her constantly at some party at her grandmother's summer palace. Obviously, this addlepated buffoon would attempt to win her hand at some point, but she was having none of it. The next thing he knew, my lady had left the ball, saddled a horse herself, and decided to go for a walk on the beach. She was still garbed in a court gown and tiara. You can well imagine my surprise when I came across her on the strand, skirts looped into her belt and away from the sand, shoes and stockings left in the saddlebags, her hair a lovely tangle that kept being tugged by the wind."

"I am certain she was just as surprised to see you as well, Your Highness. Though, I imagine, the lady was delighted to share the evening with someone as dear as you," Moira remarked, recalling how her heartbeat had quickened to see the familiar figure seated beside a large fire on the beach. At first he'd watched her silently, trying to blend into the shadows, unsure of who it was approaching. But then his shoulders had relaxed and he'd stood and walked to meet her partway.

She'd never forget the brightness of his smile as he approached, his own head bare in the wind, the hood of his cowl useless against the buffeting sea breezes that tugged at their attire.

"This is quite a meeting!" Moira laughed, trying to tuck her hair behind her ears to keep an unobstructed view of him, though it was a pointless maneuver with the strength of the wind. "What brings you to the shore, Master Blueberry?"

"I enjoy trying to hear mermaids singing," he replied, laughing when she blinked at him.

"I've never actually seen one of the merfolk! Where are they?" she asked, quickly looking out at the moon-speckled waves, hoping to see one of the mythical creatures. She rested one hand on his arm as she stood on her tiptoes, trying vainly to spot one of the singers.

Ralathor chuckled at her enthusiasm, his cheeks warming quickly at the way she sought his assistance, unafraid to touch him familiarly. He tried to remember his old manners and gently took her hand to rest in the crook of his elbow. "Why don't you sit by the fire with me and we'll see what we can hear." He rolled his eyes at how inane his suggestion sounded, his smile falling at his convoluted statement, but Moira only grinned at him.

"Yes! That would be wonderful, thank you." She patted his arm with her other hand and walked with him to the fire, Ralathor sweeping out his fingers to settle a thick rug and soft cushions for them to rest on. She giggled, enjoying his chivalry and creativity, and stepped onto the carpet which was already warming from the nearby blaze.  
He saw them both settled, and silence stretched out as they sat, comfortable with the other's presence, the night spinning by slowly overhead.

"You know my reason for this venture out, but I don't know yours?" Ralathor prompted, resting his arm on his bent knee. "No guard, no partner-in-mischief...Is everything alright?" He hadn't even considered she might be in trouble, he had been so wrapped up in just being able to spend time with her once more.

Moira sighed and gave a self-deprecating laugh. "I ran out of a party to avoid a suitor," she admitted, and the wizard felt his chest grow cold.

A suitor. Why had he never before really considered that she would have male admirers. He wondered if there was one she held dear, if there was an arranged marriage on her horizon she'd never mentioned. He cleared his throat, looking out at the dark ocean, trying to find calm in its ferocity. "Was he...being difficult?" he asked, trying to put himself back into a conversing mindset. He could well remember some of the balls and parties he had been forced to attend in his mother's court when he was younger and could imagine how such a lovely woman as Moira would have had her pick of partners for the evening.

The lady made a so-so gesture with her hand, wincing slightly. "He was...enthusiastic?" she admitted. "Polite and courteous, thankfully. But just a bit overabundant with his compliments and attentions. They didn't seem terribly sincere, though I'm sure he meant for them to." She shrugged. "Our conversations weren't very thrilling, either, mainly focusing on his hunting trips. He's not really one for books, unfortunately," she added, drawing her knees up to rest her chin on them and warm her toes by the fire.

"Will there be trouble over your having left early?" Ralathor wondered, perking up a bit to hear that she preferred her suitors learned.

"I don't believe so," she replied. "I told the stable master I was going out for a ride, and he made sure I had a couple of daggers in my saddle bags, just in case. However, I think I'm safe at the moment," she grinned, turning her head to rest her cheek on her knees and smile up at him.

He raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Oh? Spending time with The Mysterious Hermit of Cowdenbeath doesn't worry you? How do you know I'm not some power-mad sorcerer bent on your destruction?" He lifted his hands like menacing claws, his eyes sparkling in the firelight with humor and she laughed, her nose wrinkling at his antics.

"Because that's not your way," she answered, shrugging one shoulder, her arms wrapped around her legs. "If I didn't feel safe with you, I wouldn't visit you."  
He blinked at the simplicity of her statement, his hands lowering as he shifted to sit tailor-style. "Thank you for trusting me," he said finally, hunching forward a little to get a bit more on her eye-level.

"You're welcome." She reached out and patted his arm, then looked up quickly as a melody floated over the water. Her fingers squeezed his forearm excitedly, Moira shifting to sit on her knees. "Oh!_ Listen!" _she whispered, her other hand covering her mouth in wonder, the other still gripping him firmly as if trying to make sure he didn't leave and miss the moment.

A single voice drifted on the wind, soon joined by others, the melody rising and falling like the tides. The words, if there were any, were unintelligible, but the emotions the sound evoked were pulled from the deepest caverns of the listener's heart. Joy and despair, love and longing, bright summer days and frigid winter nights were twined in the music.

Ralathor watched as tears flowed unashamedly down Moira's face, a wavering smile appearing as she unconsciously swayed a little to the sound, as if waves pulled at her, too. He smiled down at her hand, her thumb tracing small sweeps against his sleeve, offering comfort during the moving performance. She didn't even know she was doing it, he realized, it was just Moira. He covered her hand with his and looked out at the sea finally, sharing the gift of the song.

Moira added another spoonful of the herbs listed in the recipe to the cauldron, careful to stir them in properly and strike three times on the edge of the pot before she let it bubble on its own. "It's a wonderful memory, my lord," she remarked, the mermaids' song still echoing in her mind. She had ended up sitting up with him most of the night, the two talking about trips to the shore as children and other adventures. They'd ended up falling asleep well before dawn, only awakening when the sun was starting to peek over the ocean. "But why tell me all of this?"

He took a sip of his tea, eyeing her carefully and then holding the cup between his cold hands. "Because my lady is dead. Either by your hand or someone in my mother's court. You wear her clothes, true, but Moira would never part with that ring. I know this as she has said before she wears it to honor one dear to her. I soon will join her in an eternal sleep, of that I am sure. I know not whether this potion will work, and the counter spell I shall have to perform may very well be my last. So, in the tradition of our people and their love of stories, I tell you of mine and my lady's so that we may be remembered and my mother will know my love for Moira was true."


	14. Twists and Tunnels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The caverns are host to many interesting creatures, some even mechanical

Moira felt as if her legs were going to give way from his declaration and resignation. "My lov--_my lord,"_ she amended, her hands curling into fists, nails scoring her palms to keep from weeping and reaching for him.

"I want no retaliation from my mother or the rest of the Court in the event of my passing landing on the Kingdom of Dundee or anyone who matters to Moira," he said firmly, waving a hand.

"How can you just surrender to this?" she cried out, anger overriding her sadness. She stalked towards him, the hermit eyeing her impassively. "You are so brave, so kind, and so godsforsakenly stubborn!"

Behind her, Hoots snorted awake, blinking blearily at all the shouting. He frowned, trying to focus on the couple across the room, Moira standing over Ralathor, her hands planted on her hips.

"That's a rather harsh tone to take with your prince, nymph," Ralathor said lowly, the timbre of his voice dangerous in its quiet.

"With all due respect, Your Highness," she retorted, "I would think that my prince would have more spine than to simply give himself over to death! And you cannot say for certain that your lady is dead, you have no evidence to confirm this!"

He glared at her, leaning forward in his seat. "I have no evidence to say otherwise, madame," he fired back. "I attempted to block a spell meant for her, the very same one devouring me currently. I know not if any part of it struck her, though I tried to protect her as best I could. If this hit her, I am certain she would die from it as powerful as it was. If she did, indeed, survive, she may have been killed by you or another of my mother's minions to set you in her place, though your disguise is lacking in credibility."

Moira folded her arms and leveled her gaze at him. "Oh really?"

"I hope you have devoted more care to your potion than you have to your appearance, nymph. Otherwise, I most assuredly will meet my doom."

She sucked in a harsh breath, nearly ready to throttle him with her own hands at his stubbornness and his attitude. She turned and looked at Hoots, having heard his shuffling upon his awakening. "The potion needs to simmer for at least ten more minutes before it needs to cool, Lord Hootsman. After that, he needs to drink a large cup of it," she said stiffly. "I am going for a small walk. I shall not be far away. Please do come find me should you need help with this..._prince." _She spat the last word, turning on her heel to retrieve her shoes and cloak to take a small break in the tunnels.

The Hootsman looked over at Ralathor, who was now calmly drinking his tea and watching the fire. "You certainly have a way with people," the barbarian remarked, reaching for his own mug, though the tea had since gone cold.

"Whether I anger her or not is not my concern," the sorcerer replied. "I only need her to help me through this cure, then deliver my memories to my mother should it not work."

Hoots was on his feet quickly. "You're not going to die!" he hissed, planting his hands on his friend's armrests. "You are needed in this world! Angus will need you to guide him through the dwarves' tunnels to Zargothrax's castle. You know a frontal assault will spell tragedy and failure!"

Ralathor waved his words away, shaking his head. "You know the path, Hoots. You can guide him if need be." He sighed and set aside his drink as the other man moved away. "I'm tired, my friend. My love is gone. This story winds out from us again, and who's to say what will happen next?"

The barbarian king gritted his teeth and envied Moira her escape, even if it was only for a short time. "You shall not die, you foolish wol. Not if I can help it."

Ralathor snorted and resumed watching the fire. "You shouldn't swear like that."

The Hootsman threw him a rude gesture and flopped back down in his chair, glaring at the pale wizard who looked even sicker than before.

Moira finally let her tears fall when she was far enough away, allowing her feet to carry her to one of the distant workrooms, the ever-burning candles in there creating a warm haven. She didn't get to visit this one very often, but it was one of her favorites as it was the Inventions Room. Mechanics and clockworks sat around the space, a few of the inventions active, their clicking and whirring a pleasant noise against the faint rush of an underground creek nearby. Wooden shelves and cubbyholes lined the walls, low countertops over cupboards allowing for a work surface wherever a creator needed.

Her sobs were muffled here from the living quarters, and she sank down into a wooden chair by the workbench. She rested her head on her arms and gave over to her grief, the stress of her playacting and the threat of Ralathor's death making her chest ache.

Several minutes passed before the gulping sobs quieted to hiccups and sniffles and Moira pulled out her handkerchief to blow her nose and wipe her eyes. She pillowed her cheek on her arm and tapped delicately at a tiny, strange automaton that looked like a silver unicorn.

It chimed softly and pranced over the table, Moira smiling in spite of herself at the wonder of it. "How can he take such care to create something like you, but be so cavalier about himself?" she asked it, listening to the small hooves pattering on the wood.

"Do you know what lurks beneath Cowdenbeath?" the little robot asked, and Moira jumped in surprise, hearing a very miniscule version of Ralathor's voice coming from the machine.

"I know all too well!" she managed to laugh. "How darling, it talks! What else can you say, little one?"

"Disbelief destroys the magic," it declared. "Legends create their tales."

Moira raised a dubious eyebrow. "It sounds like your creator has simply filled you with randomness, tiny steed," she smiled, standing and moving one of the other machines over to tinker with it.

"The tower is high and mighty, we cannot climb the walls..." the unicorn supplied helpfully.

She retrieved a tiny screwdriver to tighten some of the bolts holding her invention together. "You remind me of myself trying to break through to that cranky blueberry," she muttered, her lips twisting in frustration as she picked up a pair of tweezers to adjust a gear. "I don't understand, he's come so far, lived so long, and now he's just going to give up?"

"Through the ancient tunnels, the warriors make way..."

She looked down at the unicorn, who was now stopped in front of her, the sapphires set for its eyes seeming to be staring at her. She frowned. "Why do I feel like you're more than just a toy?" she murmured, starting to reach out a hand to touch it, but the unicorn scampered away, spouting some nonsense about not confusing recklessness with confidence.

"Oh, honestly," Moira huffed. "You're as difficult as he is! Just when I think things are making sense and we're on a level ground with each other, off he goes into some prickly mood, or something goes wrong around us!"

"My hammer will break the spell before the last hope dies..."

Moira's eyes snapped to the metal creature at the phrase. "Pardon?" she breathed, her brows drawing together.

"Beneath the fortress great, led by a hermit, the way to the castle his secret..."

"Ralathor...?" She crouched down to be on eye level with the horse, who had stopped once again to look at her.

"An epic war is fight, the evil wizard falls to doom...in liquid ice..."

Her eyes widened. "Oh gods..."

The unicorn tilted its head, the sapphires glowing. "Now the time has come to rise...Fight for the ancient story..."

She started to run from the room, suddenly worried she'd spent too much time away from the sorcerer, only to stop cold at the sight of a woman clothed in shimmering gray robes standing in the doorway.

Her skin was as pale as moonlight, the dark length of her hair bound in plaits and engraved silver bands, a crown of black tourmaline, black fire opals and thin silver spikes resting on her head. The embroidery on her dress gleamed in the light, silver moonbeams threaded through the fabric and forming the shapes of geese in flight through the sky. Her gaze, as gray as a storm rushing across the ocean, assessed the woman before her, taking in the reddened eyes, the swollen nose, the simple dress, and the look of fearful determination on her face.

"Moira, daughter of Maeve, daughter of Titania," she intoned, her milky fingers shifting their grip on the tall staff of polished birch wood she held. "Why is my son dying under your care?"

The princess swallowed down her fear and managed a deep curtsey of respect. "Your Majesty. It is true that the Prince Ralathor is dying, and aye, he is under my care. However, the two are not related, and I am trying to work to cure him."

"Playing with toys does not seem to be a way to heal someone, methinks," Nicnevenn said tartly.

Moira lifted her chin. "I agree, ma'am, but it appears that this automaton has answers to the plight of the Kingdom of Fife," she tried to explain, but the tall queen dismissed the words with an imperious lift of her hand.

"Why should I care?" the faerie responded airily. "Why should_ you_ care? Your concern ought only to be my son and his potential demise." She glared down at her.

"You should care because you are Queen of the Faeries of Fife, and if Zargothrax succeeds in taking over the kingdom, I would think that your own domain would be affected. I care because it is my home." She folded her arms, glaring right back. "As for your son, he has been my concern for the last several years, and I am currently trying to heal him and avoid any 'demise'. If you'll excuse me, Your Majesty, I want to check on him."

"What if I won't?" Nicnevenn countered, tapping her staff on the stone floor. "What if I don't excuse you, and you must stay in this room until I say?"

Moira sighed, frustrated, and beginning to realize just where Ralathor got his lack of effective communication skills. "Then that's your decision to bar the person attempting to save Ralathor's life. That's also your decision to keep the woman who loves him away from his side."

Nicnevenn rolled her eyes. “Romance is for mortals. I would think you’re above that, little one.”

The witch shook her head. “I apologize, but I don’t have the time for puzzles right now. I need to check on Ralathor.”

“You need to cure him.”

Moira’s eyes flew open and she breathed slowly out of her nose, trying not to pull her hair out at the circular way the other woman spoke. “Yes, I do. May I leave so that I may attempt to do so?”

“Of course, why didn’t you just say so?”

The Queen stepped aside grandly, her robes rippling like water in a stream.

The woman in purple bit her lip to keep from saying something she shouldn't as she hurried out the door and through the caves. The glow from the lanterns in the living areas greeted her, and she moved quickly to the work room, relieved to see Ralathor still sat in his chair, though now he was reading a book, a blanket tucked around his legs.

"I trust your walk burned away some of your attitude?" Ralathor muttered, not looking up from the pages.

"If this is how you speak to her, I am amazed she has stayed around you so loyally," Nicnevenn retorted, the crestfallen look on Moira's face not lost on her from the hermit's words.

Ralathor's head shot up and he immediately winced at the sharp movement. He clutched his head, the book falling into his lap, and he squinted up at the gray faerie. "Mother," he rumbled, then glared at Moira. "So, she came even without the lure of your knitting. I thought I made it clear she was not to come to my home."

"I didn't call for her!" the princess retorted, going over to the cauldron and inspecting the brew before going to the mug cupboard..

"Lovers' spat, Dewdrop?" the queen asked him, going over and feeling his forehead. She smiled softly when he closed his eyes for a second at her touch.

"Don't call me that," he responded, opening his eyes again, the gray rimmed slightly in glowing blue. "And I'd hardly call one of your nymphs my lover," he sneered, baring his teeth, and Moira, who had just turned around with a cup, nearly fumbled the mug at the sight of his appearance.

Besides his glowing eyes, Ralathor's face had grown more angular. His canines had gotten longer, looking slightly like fangs, and pale points emerged from between the lank strands of his hair, his ears now slightly tapered at the tips. He looked over at her, frowning at the blatant shock on her face. "Don't you dare break that cup, wench," he growled.

Nicnevenn blinked down at him, scowling in displeasure. "Ralathor, I did not expect you to speak that way to your lady," she admonished, earning her another glare from him.

"Really, mother, you can stop with this charade," he said. "I know you sent her to spy on me, and I know you affected her appearance to resemble that of my lady."

For once, the Queen of the Faeries was at a loss for words. She looked from her son to the woman now ladling the potion into the cup, her eyes downcast and the tip of her nose slightly reddened. 

"Nic!" Hoots' voice boomed from the doorway, causing everyone to look over at him as he strode over, arms stretched wide to embrace the Unseelie royal.

She returned the smile and moved to let him hug her. "Hoots, it is always so nice to be with you," she beamed, pulling away. "I see what you meant when you said things were moving with difficulty here," she frowned, looking back over at Ralathor, who was staring at them in surprise. "Dewdrop, Hoots is the one who requested I come here. He asked me to stay with you for a time, and because he says we need to talk."

He closed his book and tucked it into his chair. "I have nothing to say to you," he said darkly as he pushed to his feet to leave for his bedchamber. 

"I think you do," the Hootsman said firmly, the sober tone of his voice surprising the sorcerer. He took the cup from Moira and handed it to Ralathor. "Drink this. Sit down."

The two men glared at each other, a battle of wills that Ralathor conceded to the King of Unst, except for the sitting part. He felt like standing, so he would.

Hoots picked up a bag he'd carried in from the kitchen, as well as Moira's star cloak."We need to leave," he told her. "Angus is going to need us. Normally Wol's the one to do this part of the story, but..."

"I don't think it's wise to tell her--" Ralathor began, but his mother cut him off.

"The lass is fae, she understands time does not move the way mortals think it does, Dewdrop. Drink your tea."

Moira looked at the Hootsman in confusion. "Angus? Where are we going? I don't want to leave Ralathor."

Hoots took her hand in his, his rough palm reassuringly warm around her fingers. "Little bird, Ralathor and I have walked in other versions of this time before. There are some things that are different from what we've seen, but the story is basically the same. Ralathor is the one supposed to help Angus sneak into Zargothrax's castle, usually, but..." He looked over at his friend and nodded pointedly at the cup in his hand, the hermit rolling his eyes and drinking. He looked back down at the woman in front of him and squeezed her hand. "I know you don't want to leave him. And I commend you for feeling that way. But Fife needs your help, and you know this. We must leave now." He shouldered the bag of supplies after strapping his battle axe across his back, her cloak still in his hand.

She looked up at him, worry and sadness evident in her eyes, but she nodded nonetheless. "Let me just say goodbye, quickly," she asked, her voice soft with her fear.

Hoots nodded and let her go, watching as she approached the prince with careful steps.

He set aside his cup and watched her with suspicion, his arms folding defensively. "Yes?" he asked, his voice clipped as she stared up at his changed form. 

She reached out and delicately took one of his hands in both of hers, smiling gently as she traced over the fragile bones on the back of his hand. Slim lavender trails slid over them, spreading into the tendons and up his arm, her magic slipping into his heart as she turned his hand over. He frowned at her bent head, starting when a tear landed with a silent splash in the center of his palm, her thumbs smoothing it into his skin. 

"Remember me when you are able," she murmured, lifting his hand and pressing a kiss over the tangle of his life line, her wet lashes brushing against him. She drew away and looked up into his startled eyes with a crooked smile before she set her ring in his grasp, closing his fingers around it and letting him go.

She then went to Nicnevenn, wiping the tears away hastily before presenting a deep curtsey to her. "It was good to finally meet you, ma'am. He's wonderful," she laughed breathily, glancing back at the still-puzzled hermit then at his mother.

Nicnevenn smiled back, a rarity that Moira was deeply honored by. "Titania is pleased with you, child. Go with my blessing also."

Moira bowed again, then walked to Hoots and accepted her cloak, clasping it around herself with a resigned, bittersweet shrug. "Let's be off, then."

He grinned and winked at her, then waved at the other two before escorting her out.


	15. The Two Courts, The Two Caverns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicnevenn and Ralathor finally have a talk that has been centuries in coming, and a quest begins to face the dark lord...

Moira tucked her hands into the pockets of her apron for warmth as she followed the Hootsman through the dark of the tunnels, the sounds of their footsteps shuffling over the stone floors loud in the deep silence of the caverns. “Are you sure it was wise to leave him alone with her, given how shaky their past has been?” she asked him, her thumb tracing over the empty space on her finger, the sensation strange with the newly-exposed skin. “I mean, I know she’s his mother and she loves him…I think?”

Hoots looked back at her puzzled frown and smiled. “Aye, Nic loves him dearly. She doesn’t show it in the way that humans are used to, but the emotion isn’t any less genuine. He is dearer to her than anything, I may say.”

She angled her head thoughtfully at his nickname for the powerful queen. “How is it you know her, Hoots?” she asked, catching up with the barbarian’s long strides.

He chuckled, his blue eyes twinkling with fond memories. “Nic and I were together once upon a time,” he grinned, especially at how wide Moira’s eyes became at the admission. “The relationship didn’t last a while, and it was long before she married Ralathor’s father. But the time we had together was lovely. It’s been a while since I’ve been back.”

“Why didn’t his father accompany her?” she wondered, wrapping the cloak around her arms. “Is it too close to the turn of the year for him to be away also?”

Hoots shook his head, the light leaving his smile. “No, the king passed away when the Wol was just a wee lad. Nic’s never found another mate since then. Her love for him was very great.”

Moira looked down, lost in her thoughts of a small prince without a father, a mother torn between her duty to her people and her child. Winter was dark above the ground. She couldn’t imagine what it must have been like to be in Nicnevenn’s domain after having lost one so dear.

After a time, she posed another question. “What was it like, being with an Unseelie?”

The Hootsman shrugged, the edge of his axe’s blade shimmering in the light of the crystals in the walls. “Pretty much the same as being with anyone. They have feelings, they enjoy a good conversation…Granted, their conversations are a bit more twisty than ours, as you might have noticed.” He raised an eyebrow and smirked at her.

“I had the thought earlier that their mannerisms are where Ralathor got his skill at not divulging all information, even when it might be necessary,” she said wryly, her companion laughing.

“That’s typical of fae, not just Unseelie,” Hoots explained. “Besides, you’re one to talk there, little bird, about not saying what you mean.”

Moira sniffed, trying to look unaffected. “Yes, well, humans aren’t always great shakes at being forthright, especially when one is worried about rejection.”

The Hootsman scoffed, shaking his head, his mane of hair swinging with the movement. “Honestly, that boy wouldn’t reject you even if someone were holding a sword to his neck. And, Moira…” His eyes narrowed in curiosity. “Why do you refer to yourself in that way? Denying your heritage…what would your grandmother think?” He frowned, perplexed, and she mirrored his expression, just as lost.

“What does my grandmother have to do with this conversation?” she returned. “We’re talking about fae habits.”

His footsteps slowed to a stop, his head dropping a bit in surprise as it sank in what she was saying. Or rather, wasn’t. “Little bird…I think we need to talk.”

Back in Ralathor’s home, tension hung in the air like thick smoke.

“Mother, what was your reasoning for sending one of your nymphs here to tend to me?” the hermit asked, drinking the brew Hoots had handed him and inwardly sighing as he felt it begin to scrub away the edges of the spell. It still was trying to win, destroy him slowly, but the potion was weakening it. “My lady is a healer. Between the both of us, we probably would have been able to cure me.” He watched as she moved around the room, inspecting the tiny machines and inventions, peering at the bowls of crystals.

“I had no reason to send a nymph to you,” she replied, picking up a small candle holder shaped like bird wings cupped around a candle scented with soft lilies. “As I said, Hoots was the one who requested I come here. Besides, had your lady left her knitting unfinished, I would be here at the end of the year, you had that aright.” Nicnevenn set the candle back down. “With a family such as hers, she ought to know the rules of such things, regardless of her plans for it to be a gift to you for the turning of the seasons.” 

She nodded to the ring he’d discarded on his workbench as he made his way back to his chair. “You both are rather fond of giving each other tokens,” she observed. “She wears your cloak, your brooch of rank.” Her smile was pleased and yet as crystalline hard as bare starlight. “How have you not given each other your troth as well? I would dare say that you both are engaged at least, what with her kiss to your hand and the gift of her ring. That little pixie has left you much of her power, even though she ought to have kept as much as she could for the battle ahead.”

Ralathor scowled at her, the effect a little more venomous with the appearance of his fangs and the faint glow of his eyes. “She is no pixie, mother, do not insult her with such a term.” He drank more of his tea, trying to shield his concerns over the Unseelie Queen having so much knowledge of Moira.

Nicnevenn sighed, picking up an orb of rose quartz to toy with it between her hands as she paced. “Oh, very well, Dewdrop,” she relented, shaking her head at him with a parent’s patience. “But your dear little Queen-to-Be needs as much to bolster her energy as she can get. I’m pleased that she has the Hootsman to stand with her.”

He frowned, forcibly making himself drink more of the potion even as his mind whirled over her words. “She will never ascend a throne, Mother. Her oldest brother will sit in her grandmother’s place at the time of her passing. And how would you know? You’ve not met Moira.”

The winter goddess eyed him worriedly. “You truly do believe I sent one of my ladies to be at your bedside,” she murmured, her tone pensive. “Do you not see your nursemaid for who and what she is?”

“You of all beings know that what we see is not necessarily what’s there, mother!” Ralathor cried out, rubbing at his brow in frustration. “What do you see in me? I have asked you before, but you never answer. Do you see fae, or do you see a changeling that you stole to replace your child?”

“I see my son,” she answered her brows drawing together as he growled and pushed to his feet. She set the sphere down on the table to fold her arms as she watched him.  
“This! This is your answer every time!” he raged, snapping his mug down on the table and walking away from her. “What am I? I have craved the truth since I was a child! I am your son, aye, the Prince of the Unseelie, aye. But what else? Where do I come from? What blood runs through me?” He clutched handfuls of his hair, turning to glare into the leaping fire in the hearth. “I know not the questions to ask to receive the answers I need,” he admitted brokenly, lifting his hands to rest them on the mantel, his head bowing between hunched shoulders. He stiffened with a sharp inhale when he felt her hand rest on his back, the coolness of her skin seeping through his tunic.

“You were born from me under the new moon on Yule,” Nicnevenn said quietly. “Silver stags with frost gleaming on their horns took the announcement of your arrival to all the corners of our kingdom. Your father, may the winds always carry his name in memory, was overjoyed when you were placed in his arms, the cry of outrage you uttered at being in the world making him laugh and weep all at once.” She rested her temple against his shoulder, her hand moving in soft circles over his spine. 

“Out of all the wonders I’ve witnessed and created, you have always been the most exquisite to grace my life. You were not born with wings or features common to our people, though your magic has always been true. As you have aged, some aspects of our physical traits have manifested in you. Perhaps with even more time, others will emerge.” She leaned to kiss his cheek and tuck his hair behind one gracefully pointed ear. “I am sorry you never felt accepted, my love, or that my answers were not what you sought,” she said. “I have missed you. I am glad to know you have found one that loves you as your princess does, though I do wish you both would see each other as you truly are.”

Ralathor clenched his teeth, feeling his magic rebuilding itself under the cover of the power of his potion, whatever healing the nymph had stirred into it helping to speed the process. “I see Moira,” he emphasized her name to clarify who he spoke of, “as a good woman, true of heart and deed, mother. I see her as one who has accepted me as the raggedy hermit who shuns the outside, as the sorcerer who holds time in his hands. I see her as my future, my eternity.” He walked away to sit down once more and continue to drink the potion, exhaustion making his bones begin to ache.

The queen smiled as gently as she could, her wintry countenance softening at his declaration. “I saw all of those things and more, my child,” Nicnevenn responded, going to her son. She rested her hands on his head, pushing back the cloying hunger of the spell that was dulling his senses and tricking his mind. She sent careful brushes of her power over the ravaged strings of his own, her words weaving through his thoughts. “I saw her power, deep and varied as the new roots that break through the chilled stone of our kingdom every spring. I saw the bright spark of her love, glittering like sunlight as it plays on the surface of a melting loch and as warm as those rays as they push down to the fish awakening after my snows.” She bent and kissed the crown of his head, smiling as she remembered doing such things when he was a baby, his twilight hair as soft as feathers beneath her kisses. 

She straightened, the hem of her gown brushing her feet. She folded her hands in front of herself as she continued. “She brings life to you, warmth to you, the crisp blush of the last apple before our frost envelops her lands. I see how she is your match, and yet your opposite, a worthy star to guide you on the coldest night. My love, my prince, my heir…dear one, she will one day be Titania’s heir, the light of the year to meet the dark of your kingdom. How do you not see this, too? She is fae as you are, though she is Seelie.”

Ralathor nearly dropped his cup in shock, Nicnevenn steadying his hand with her own. “You ought not to spill that, darling, you’re meant to drink it. What would your lady say if you wasted what she worked so hard on?”

He blinked up at her then away, seeing nothing and yet everything all at once. He remembered waking and seeing her in his chair, the joy on her face as she came towards him. His stomach twisted as he recalled standing over her, the terror on her face cutting him as he could feel the phantom surge of his attack sparking under his skin. And then Hoots taking him to the floor in a roar of rage, Moira binding him and knocking him out with her magic. “She was here this whole time,” he whispered. More of his mother’s words pushed their way forward and he looked at her again. “A faerie?” he managed.

She clicked her tongue, pulling away to refill his cup. “Just like you, not every faerie looks the way they do in stories. Her mother doesn’t have wings either. Her father keeps his glamoured so they’re not seen.” She ladled some of the liquid into the mug and turned back around. “They don’t visit Titania’s palaces very often, though I used to enjoy seeing Moira as a tiny little sprite when my Court would take over rule in the autumn. She would occasionally spend Samhain at Titania’s cottage.” She handed him his drink, looking at him pointedly. “She was a precocious child, you may like to know. I think you two may have had a play-date once when you both were little. Or was it one of her presentation balls?” She waved her hand dismissively. “I’m not certain. You know time is a bit messy for us.”

Ralathor started to get to his feet, but the weakness in his body overrode the panic starting to tingle along his nerve endings. “Mother, I let her go with Hoots,” he said hoarsely as he sat back down. “She’s taking my place in the story and going to end up facing off with Zargothrax. What if she needs me? I do not know for certain what will happen to me now.”

Nicnevenn edged his cup closer, urging him to take a drink, to not let him see the deep-seated fear that had grown in her heart since she received the King of Unst’s missive. The Hootsman had asked that she and Ralathor talk, that they clear up the rift that had widened between them. He requested her help to save her son, or at least offer comfort if these were indeed his final days. “You will be well, Dewdrop. She made this potion for you, she has left her ring laced with as much of her essence as she could spare. Your lady is quite powerful, my love.”

“Mother, so is the dark wizard,” he insisted. “He is wily and treacherous, the poison of his magic is desperate. He is mad, and he will not be swayed just by her goodness. If he used that accursed spell once, and it was meant for her originally, who is to say he will not try such evil again? She is of magic, as I am, though much younger. I have held on, though it grows more difficult with each passing hour,” he admitted bleakly. He shook his head, feeling the impotence of his situation pressing around him. “She would be gone in an instant, if she is lucky.”

The rapid race of his breathing was beginning to alarm her, the panic starting to weaken his strength again, even with Moira’s potion sustaining him. Hoots had told her of his apathy, his tiredness from aeons of fighting, questing, trying. He was tired, she knew. And while he would never actively seek death, he seemed to be close to welcoming its presence because of this illness.

Nicnevenn removed the mug from his hands and looked down at him in pity. “This is for your own good, dear one,” she whispered, a quick wave of her hands the only warning he had before the room expanded in a swift whoosh, a confused Tawny owl suddenly nested amid the cavern of the blanket in the chair.

He blinked in indignant shock at the pale faerie, who couldn’t help but smile down in delight at the bird, who was much larger than when he would transform as a child.

Moira stared in stunned silence at the Hootsman as he finished talking. “But…but these are all just stories I made up as a child!” she insisted from where she sat by the fire he was building.

They were stopping to rest by a large underground lake, having decided that sleeping during the day would be more preferable than at night, since Zargothrax’s dark forces were on the move. Hoots wasn’t certain that any of the goblins or trolls in the wizard’s employ would venture underground…yet. But, he’d rather they try to be prepared for anything.

“I can assure you, the fact that your grandmother rules over the Summer Court of the Fae is not a story,” Hoots replied, striking his dagger against a flint stone to send a spray of sparks into the kindling. The flame caught and he crouched lower, blowing gently on the tiny blaze until it grew and he could sit back with a satisfied smile. “You haven’t been to her domain, properly, since you were a child, so it stands to reason that your memories have faded into, what you think are, stories.”

She helped him unpack his bag, spreading out the two sleeping rolls he’d brought for each of them, then setting aside the smaller bag with extra clothes for her that he’d included. “I attended a ball a few years ago at her palace,” she insisted. “It wasn’t long after I had met Ralathor. There was a gentleman there who seemed to have taken a liking to me, but I left the party early when his attentions grew unwanted.”

Hoots burst into laughter at her simple explanation, remembering this story a trifle differently since he’d heard it from other members of the Seelie, including Titania herself. “My girl, that was Nuada of the Irish Fae’s Wild Hunt. King of the Tuatha de Danann. I believe he was campaigning to your grandmother for your hand.” He slapped his knee, laughing harder. “Imagine when he finds out you’re betrothed to Nic’s son!”

Moira choked on her own breath. “Hoots, what on earth are you on about?” she asked, coughing. “Ralathor has never proposed…” She trailed off, looking down at the brooch on her cloak, and then remembering her ring, and she couldn’t help a smile from lighting her face. “Oh.”

The Hootsman nodded once, smirking. “Aye, ‘oh’ indeed, little bird.”

“But…but it’s not official. As I said, he’s never asked,” she shrugged, looking away at the lake and feeling melancholy beginning to slither over her heart.

The barbarian king moved over to sit beside her and wrap a comforting arm around her shoulders. “He’ll ask,” he said quietly, grimacing at the shiver that went through her slight frame.

“What if he doesn’t have the opportunity?” she wondered, her voice small, thick with the tears that were clogging her throat. 

Hoots squeezed her to him a little, trying to remain in a lighter mood for her sake. “You mustn’t think like that,” he insisted. “The Wol is a strong, stubborn man, you know this. You’ll see him again.”

The princess sniffled, turning and resting her head on the furred shoulder of his vest, and Hoots wrapped his other arm around her, letting her cry. He kissed the top of her head, waiting out the tide of her tears patiently, knowing that she needed the emotional release if she was to concentrate on the quest ahead. He knew she hadn’t truly had time to process everything that had occurred, all of them simply jumping from one disaster to another since that council in Auchctermuchty. Had that been only such a short time ago, he wondered. They all needed a rest, though he knew that probably wouldn’t happen for any time soon.

When she finally quieted, she was so still he thought she’d fallen asleep until she asked softly, “So, I’m a faerie?”

He smiled. “Aye, you are. One from a very large family of such creatures. And a faerie _princess,_ I might add.”

She snorted as she thumbed away her tears. “Every little girl’s dream,” she muttered. “But, Hoots, if I’m a faerie, why don’t I…” She looked up at him, letting her sentence fade.  
“Why don’t you look like one?” he supplied, hugging her once more before drawing away. “All fae have different traits and abilities. Ralathor doesn’t really resemble the typical appearance of an Unseelie, though, as you saw, he does transform a bit, which is something that started as he’s gotten older. Your parents wanted to protect you from any intrigue amongst the Courts, so they’ve tried hard to shield you. But, there’s only so much you can do to protect your child once they’re out in the world. You may have qualities that resemble your peoples’, you just haven’t discovered them, yet.”

Moira nodded, mulling all of this over for now. “I need to sit and talk with my family,” she said finally, exhaling and propping her chin in her palm. “That’s going to be a rather long conversation.”

The Hootsman chuckled again and started setting up a makeshift fishing pole to catch dinner. “One battle at a time, little bird. Let’s focus on saving Dundee, then we’ll deal with that area of your life, aye?”

She smiled. “Aye.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EbonyDraygon wrote an exquisite free-form poem for this and I wanted to share it with you
> 
> A little boy in winter’s livery, with pale eyes and paler skin, though both reddened now from tears passage. To the Queen he runs for comfort seek, for she is the one who claims him as her own. She was Nicnevenn  
The faerie queen  
Unseelie ruler  
Witch’s goddess.   
She took the weeping child in her arms with a mother’s ease.  
“What troubles you my Dewdrop?” she asks, her voice like the sound of ringing ice. Gentle fingers that to others were talons gently wiped the tears from the little boy’s cheeks.  
“They say I am not one of them,” the child cries, “they say I have no wings and my features too smooth to be like the rest. They say I’m just a changeling stolen here to play with.” He looked up at Nicnevenn with a child’s faith and innocence. “What am I, mother?”  
There was much she wished to tell him of what she saw in him:   
Rune caster  
Magics master  
Time bridger  
World walker.  
All these things summed up in one word to her.  
“You are my son,” she said and no more need be said. The boy cuddled close, content with the answer for now.
> 
> A young man in winter’s livery, a midnight cloak about his shoulders and dark cowl to hide his head. To the Queen he stalked, each step filled with a tempest’s rage. He stood below her throne and looked at her with icy rage.   
She was Nicnevenn  
Winter’s Mistress  
Dark Court’s monarch  
Samhain Flyer.  
She looked at the young man before her with a curious observer’s gaze.  
“What troubles you, my Dewdrop?” she asks, her voice like the cracking timber of ice in deep caves. Dark eyes like the space between stars look down on the young man before her throne.  
“I have seen what might have been,” the young man declared. ”I have seen how mortals and other beings treat those they call their kin, yet nothing like this have I seen from you. Who am I ‘Mother’?”   
There was much she wished to tell him of what she saw in him:   
Justice Fighter  
Portal Hopper  
Star Marker  
Knowledge seeker  
All these things summed up in one word to her.  
“You are my son,” she said and no more need be said. The young man seethed and turned away, the answer no longer satisfying as it once did.
> 
> A man in old worn clothes the colours of night sat upon a grassy hill. A bear of a man approached him in his silent vigil. He was the Hootsman  
King of Unst  
Barbarian Warrior  
More than he seemed.  
“So,” said the Hootsman as he sat beside the man, “What do they call you?”  
The man considered. There was much he could tell the barbarian:  
Cave dweller  
Hermit lord  
Noble Warrior  
Fearless commander  
All these things summed up in one word to him.  
“Call me Ralathor,” he said and extended a hand in friendship. The Hootsman shook it and offered him his flask in return. They turned back to watch the stars.


	16. Aboveground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A plan for the hermit is hatched while the Hootsman and Moira finally emerge from the underworld

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little surprise awaits my compatriots in the tumblr Hootsforce within this chapter  
@foxwinterart @ebonydraygon @hootsforce @thedarkmetallady @zirisek @uupiic @draconic-dreams,  
I hope y'all enjoy this! And if you wonder why, well, flight, duh!

Nicnevenn gently stroked her thumb over her son’s forehead, her hand resting in his hair while she sat beside him in his bed, an old book of children’s stories open and propped against her legs. Whether Ralathor slept, she wasn’t sure, his breathing slow and shallow and his eyes closed as she read to him.

A couple of days had passed since Lady Moira and the Hootsman had left on their journey, and Ralathor’s health had steadily declined in that time. Seeing him in this state had filled the queen’s spirit with dread, watching the child she had given life to withering like an oak leaf in the cold winds of the autumn. 

Transforming him into an owl made it easier to care for him. She could lift him easily and wrap him securely in a blanket to try to ease his anxiety, something she used to do when he was little. The potion he and his lady had concocted was helping with the pain and slowing the effects of the Devouring Spell, but she worried it was only slowing the inevitable and dragging out his suffering. He’d asked her to turn him back into a human that morning, preferring to lie down in his bed rather than perch somewhere.

“I’m going to try a suppression spell in the next few days,” he muttered, surprising her and interrupting her reading. He lifted his eyelids, struggling to focus on the tapestry across from the bed. 

Nicnevenn shook her head as she bookmarked her page with a finger and closed the book. “No magic, Dewdrop. You know this.”

“It will be like covering a fire over oil, mother,” he tried to explain, looking up at her tiredly. “If there’s nothing for it to eat, it can’t grow, and it’ll eventually burn out.”

The queen felt her breath thicken in her chest as what he wasn’t saying grew clear in her head. “You’re going to die,” she rasped, swallowing hard against the bile wanting to rise in her throat. “You’re going to kill yourself.”

He sighed, feeling heavy and sluggish. “If it doesn’t work, either if the spell isn’t stopped or it devours me whole from the glut of magic I’ll be throwing at it, I’ll die anyway. I do not really see any alternative, and I am tired of being an invalid, especially while my loved ones are away on a mission I am supposed to be present for.”

Nicnevenn pushed herself off the bed, smacking the book onto the table. “The gods take their stupid quest,” she hissed, venom dripping from her words as she paced away. “This story has plagued you for how many ages, Ralathor? How many lifetimes? Yet you feel guilt for not walking this path this once?” She faced him, rage burning in her veins. “As many times as you have helped McFife, faced Zargothrax, this one time you must focus on yourself, my son!”

“But what if this time is different?” he replied, pushing himself to sit up and grateful for the collection of pillows at his back. “Things have occurred that I’ve not seen.”

She moved back to him and sat on her folded leg, her other foot braced on the floor. “This time is different, my love,” she insisted. “This time your life is at stake.” She reached out and squeezed his hand, the cool dome of Moira’s ring pressing into her palm. She smiled at the sensation and cupped her hand beneath his to trace her fingers over the jewelry. “This time you have her,” she reminded him gently, the soft hum of lavender magic twining around her son’s energy a soothing reminder of how much he was loved and cared for by his friends. A reassurance to know but even moreso to actually see and feel with the changes she’d noticed in her child and his home.

“You approve, then?” he asked, his voice as tentative as a footstep on a frozen river, his eyes unsure and reminiscent of when he sought her counsel many years ago.

The Queen of Winter nodded, her smile soft as she touched his pale cheek. “Aye, dear one.”

He smiled in return. “I’m glad.” His face grew somber, then, as he returned to the previous subject. “You cannot help me with the spell,” he informed her. “I worry that if your magic aids or bolsters mine in any way while I attempt the suppression that the Devouring Spell will track back along your power to you.”

She wanted to argue with him, feeling as if she were abandoning him by agreeing not to help, but his logic was sound. This curse was nothing but an endless hunger, and she concurred that she could be potentially putting herself at risk. “But how will you return?” she wondered as she arranged herself more comfortably on the bed and rested her hand on his chest. “If you fall too deeply, you may not be able to pull yourself back.”

“Moira’s ring,” he explained. “I’ll activate it to jump me back, force me back from the darkness. She is a healer, and a powerful one at that. I believe it will be enough to save me.”

“It’s a gamble, Dewdrop,” Nicnevenn said. “I’m not certain I agree with your theory.”

He covered her fingers with his own, grimacing against his own doubts. “I don’t have a choice. It appears to be the only chance I have; I must take it.”

She closed her eyes, shutting the rising grief and worry into a box and storing it away, hoping to never unlock it. She looked at him again, willing her strength into him, and nodded. “Then we shall plan for what’s to come.”

The journey north through the tunnels seemed never ending, Moira and the Hootsman walking through caverns both tiny and colossal in the passing days. When they finally emerged into the upper world, rain kissed their grimy faces and a roll of thunder greeted them as they stood, blinking, at the mouth of a cave. Autumn colors blanketed the landscape that was just beginning to be blanketed with the meager sunset, the lush smell of water and mud washing over them while they watched the evening begin under the wooly expanse of clouds.

“Where are we?” Moira asked, tilting her face up to the rain and letting it wash some of the dust of the caverns off.

Hoots squinted at the scenery, listening for any creatures that might be around. “Near Errol, if I’m correct,” he answered.

She stared at him. “We’re that far north? I had no idea the tunnels could come this far!”

He grinned, pulling out his waterskin and taking a drink. “Aye, and we’ve passed beneath the mighty river Tay, I might add!”

She propped her hands on her hips, surveying their surroundings. “So, where do we go from here? Are we walking to Zargothrax’s castle?”

He shook his head, still scanning the horizon as he drank and then hooked the container back on his belt. “Not directly, no,” he replied. “There’s another set of caverns towards the north that we can use to access the dungeons of his citadel. It may be slow-going, I’m not sure how easily we’ll get through them.”

“Not as easily as your head will leave your body!” a scaly voice hissed from above them, the companions given no time to grab for their weapons before a horde of goblins descended on them from the rocks above.

Maybe once, ages ago, the goblins could have been considered small and cute, little creatures who were clever and willing to help those in need. But with the rise of dark forces creeping through the lands over the centuries, these were a far cry from their legendary brethren. Tall and spindly, limbs like snapping branches and skin the color of a moldy pond, and pointed, cruel faces that swept down from large, pointed ears, the goblins were nightmares in flesh with rough-hewn weapons that matched the tattered state of their clothes.

As slender as they were, their strength was daunting, claws striking and grasping to try and keep their prey disoriented and unbalanced. Hoots finally managed to yank a dagger from his boot and reared back with a throaty roar as he threw off three of the creatures that were clinging to his shoulders.

He moved the fight into the open, giving the crowd less chance to scramble up the rock face again, and the barbarian nodded to himself to see random blasts of purple magic illuminating the landscape, Moira fighting back just as viciously. The sounds of blows landing thumped around them, punctuated by screams of pain when his axe finally made an appearance, the slashes of his knife deadly but not nearly as gruesome as when his prize weapon could take a drink from his enemies.

Moira snarled as she curled her hands around in a quick swirl, conjuring a hex between them that made her palms prickle with its energy before she hurled it into a cluster of goblins. She turned away from the sounds of their agony, wiping the sweat from her face quickly as she lashed out with crackling ropes of pain that scored the flesh of her attackers, the body count around her growing. Threads of energy were clutched hastily through her fingers, the sorceress twining webs of magic from her environment and tapping into the growing energy of the coming winter to add frost and despair into her attacks.

A bird’s scream high above made everyone on the battlefield glance up, and Moira couldn’t help a shout of relieved laughter to see a small squadron of large eagles swooping towards them. She and the Hootsman used the distraction to their advantage and continued to drive back the horde around them that seemed to have grown even with their valiant efforts. She ducked down in time as gleaming talons swept just above her head, the wind from their sharp passing fluttering her hair before they embedded themselves in her enemies, goblins scrambling away as the mighty Knights of Crail joined in the fray.

The eagles’ wings sent heavy waves of wind pummeling down on the fight and the Hootsman planted his feet firmly against the barrage as he swung his axe in graceful, dangerous arcs, felling foes in moments. His smile was grim, the satisfaction of a hard fight delighting him and working out the tension he held from his travels underground. While Ralathor’s cave was comfortable enough for lounging around in, tromping through endless tunnels and caverns, some not even wide enough to pass without turning sideways, was not something he readily enjoyed. Being able to shout and exert himself in a fight was a welcome change to the last several days in the shadowy cool of the mountains.

He looked up at the Knight leading the charge and grinned to see the slight form of Ser Vulpes. He should have known Proletius would have sent this battalion to their aid. Young but no less brave or cunning than their older counterparts in the ranks, this crew of six riders had been hand-picked by the Grand Master of Crail himself. Each brought their own talents to their squad, and even though some of them came from far-off lands and different backgrounds, they were a cohesive unit of family and strength.

Ser Ebenos, originally from the mighty citadel of Edinburgh, had quickly taken a position in the armoury of Crail, constructing newer, more efficient designs for their armour that were lightweight and still strong enough to fend of damage in battle.

The Knights, being of a very long and proud line of warriors, had an archive to rival that of Auchtermuchty with records of warriors and battles past, as well as vast records of their eagles and care. Ser Rosea had thrown herself into keeping up with all this documentation, bringing new sketches and references into the library with an impressive artistic talent.

Ser Sideros was essentially the one to rope everyone in the battalion together, her talent of music invaluable in training practices of memorizing battle plans and locations, as well as being a driving force of motivation for her crew whenever their enthusiasm flagged.

The most energetic of the group was the ever-smiling Ser Hradisko, whose official placement as composite artist had helped the Knights to keep accurate records of Knights past and present. She also was able to help with many criminal investigations the Crailians were involved with by taking statements from the victims who could describe the perpetrators. In her spare time, though, she was found either involved in some sort of fast-paced sport or drawing amusing sketches of her teammates.

The Knight who had travelled furthest to join the illustrious ranks of Crail was Ser Yiyas who had a flair for language and history, as well as able to puzzle through negotiations and rulings the riders had to face when out on patrols amongst the people.

The last of them was Ser Dracona, a mysterious Knight who regarded her compatriots with wise eyes and a quiet spirit, though her heart was true and fierce. The Dragon of the Eagle Force guarded her compatriots as jealously as one of the legendary creatures guarded their hoards of treasure, and the fire of her spirit was no less deadly.

Truly they were a worthy and noble example of Knighthood, and the Hootsman was grateful for their assistance as they helped to turn the tide of battle with their eagles’ claws and beaks and their own swords and archery skills. No goblin was left standing even as the rain beat down harder on the blood-soaked ground.

The Knights landed their feathered steeds, the water rolling off the eagles in dripping sheets as their riders dismounted and met the travelers in a nearby copse of trees.

“Our thanks for your help,” Moira panted, pushing her hair back out of her face and nodding at the warriors. 

Ser Ebenos offered a smile in return, pushing back her chain mail coif and tucking her gloves in her belt. “Ser Proletius warned us that you both ought to be emerging at some point soon, but he wasn’t certain of when.”

“It gave us a chance to do some scouting, though, while we waited,” Ser Hradisko spoke up, taking out a small notebook from her hip-pack to go over her notes and sketches.

“We’ve been tracking that pod of goblins for the last couple of days,” Ser Yiyas added, setting her hands on her hips and stretching her shoulders back. Wielding a bow and firing off rapid-fire shots had put some tension in her spine.

Ser Sideros rolled her eyes and folded her arms over the grayish-purple fabric of her hauberk, the material shifting between the two colors like a pale labradorite. “We lost track of them yesterday, but fortunately they’re crap at covering their trail.”

“I imagine we’ll come across more than them in the upcoming days,” Ser Draconic smiled, the expression glittering with the thrill of future battles. As much as she enjoyed combat aboard her eagle, getting to cross swords in ground fights was one thing she relished, her prize broadsword a thing of legends.

Ser Vulpes eyed his teammate with a wry smirk, the fringe of his black hair plastered to his forehead from the rain, and he pushed it away as he regarded the Hootsman. “We’ll be returning to Dundee later, but Ser Proletius asked us to escort you and Lady Moira to the northern caves trail, if it pleases you.”

The King of Unst laughed quietly at his old friends’ foresight. “Aye, we’ll accept that offer gratefully. It will give us a chance to scout for a campsite easier from the air.”

“We’ve also brought extra provisions,” Ser Rosea spoke up quietly. The smallest of the group, she was usually overlooked by others, except when she showed her fierceness in battle, though the kindness in her heart was ofttimes greater. “Food and warm items to fend off the cold of the northern mountains,” she added, nodding over to the packs strapped behind their eagles’ saddles.

“You’ve thought of everything,” Moira praised, smiling down into the other woman’s turquoise eyes gratefully. While some of the runes sewn in to Ralathor’s cloak helped to stave off the worst of the wet and cold, she was still aware of the chill in the air from being on the edge of the highlands. “We’re grateful.”

Rosea blushed and smiled back. “’Twas nothing, ma’am. Ser Proletius said to help, so we are.”

The Hootsman gently patted her on the back. “And doing a fine job, I may say. All of you.” He shook hands with each of them before they fell into planning, waiting out the rain as best they could before mounting up again and taking to the air.

Soaring over the land on the back of an eagle was something Moira hoped she never got used to. She’d been granted the chance to take a few flights with Ser Proletius, and it was just as thrilling as the first venture each time she was able to ride again.

Mountains and valleys streaked below them, the eagles moving assuredly through the winds that buffeted their feathers. The Knights were careful to stay away from where Zargothrax’s castle was thought to be, scouting parties unable to find the structure, though the thick weave of magic centered in one area of the mountains was quite suspicious.

Flying several miles north of that, the party landed at a fairly clear part in the woods, the mountains rising up around them and offering some protection from any prying eyes.

They made camp, a fire soon burning and working to stave off the chill of the encroaching night, the warmth also aided by the circle of eagles as they hunkered down for the evening, preening their feathers from the flight. 

Dinner was begun fairly soon after, the fresh food a godsend to the travelers. While Hoots had been generous in his packing of their rations, the chance to eat fruit picked from the orchards in Crail just that morning was a treat.

The meal was peppered with tales of everyone’s travels, the Hootsman even adding in a few gems about Ser Proletius that had the Knight’s protegees torn between laughing and feeling a little guilty over their mirth regarding their superior officer.

“You have to swear I didn’t tell you any of this, though!” Hoots charged them, pointing a commanding finger at them in warning. Though, his twinkling eyes told them there wouldn’t be any repercussions from him if the stories got out.

Bedtime was called for soon after that. The eagle riders initially protested when Moira and the Hootsman offered to take their own turns on watch during the night, but the temptation of extra rest for everyone was hard to pass up. The Knights settled into their bedrolls, each tucked against the downy side of their steeds, though Rosea took the first watch, standing resolutely in the shadows of the trees while her compatriots settled into their dreams.


End file.
